


Countdown to Extinction

by DragonTail



Series: Transformers: RID [16]
Category: Transformers (Unicron Trilogy), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-23 01:03:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/616338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonTail/pseuds/DragonTail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And the stone of their protection shall rise upward forever and ever, as they who live and war as beasts confront their final cycle."</p><p>Cybertron has been sent hurtling through the cosmos at the whim of a madman. The Earth has been torn loose from reality. The Decepticons and Terrorcons wage war in the streets, each determined to wipe the other out once and for all. The scattered Autobot forces must unite across three fronts to win the day, to save their friends, to protect both their birthplace and adopted home. Debts will be honoured, hatchets buried and rivalries settled. But only one being has the power to end the Cybertronian civil war for, as it is written, salvation lies in the spark of an enemy...</p><p>The final chapter of <i>Transformers: RID</i> - and the conclusion of <i>The Primus Trilogy</i>!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“I am Alpha and Omega; the beginning and the end.”

Battle Ravage drove his paw through a tour bus. The fragile vehicle exploded and incinerated all aboard. Cruel Lock, not to be outdone, brought down three buildings with swipes of his long Energon sword. The metallic jaguar rumbled his approval.

“I am that which is…”

Crumplezone and Wind Shear had massacred those on the freeway; Wheeljack and Wreckloose had slaughtered most of the humans in the shopping district. The moose lizard had taken to consuming his victims; ragged chunks of flesh hung from his jaws, serving to further terrifying the natives.

“… which was…”

The Air Assault Mini-cons were bombarding the city from above. Chromia was hugging the coastline, using torpedos to take out boats and her deck cannon to lob missiles at high-rise apartment blocks.

“… and is yet to come.”

Snarl and Side Burn were nowhere to be seen but were, certainly, wreaking havoc upon the weakling humans. Beings as pathetic, as insignificant, as those in the portable cell atop the geodesic dome. The male and female… old allies of the Autobots… were stunned by the violence all around them. Fortunately, the Energon walls of the mini-prison were soundproof; muffling their putrid despair.

“And you will know my name is _Predaking_ when I lay my vengeance upon you!”

The high priest of the True Path turned, grinning, to Sky Shadow and Insecticon. His jubilation, his enthusiasm, was met with blank looks.

The gruesome little dwarf coughed uncomfortably. “Isn’t it ‘you will know my name is _Megatron_ ’?” he asked.

“Like the Transformer race,” Predaking said, waving a clawed hand dismissively, “the Covenant of Primus is overdue for an upgrade.” His raised an optic ridge as a sudden thought struck him. “Perhaps, once our agenda is complete,” he said slowly, warming to his idea, “I’ll take the time to sit down and re-write its data tracks to better reflect the True Path we walk this day. Yes.”

“Not _too_ heretical, then,” Insecticon muttered, glancing briefly at Kicker and Misha’s cell.

“You would do well to silence your prattling synthesiser,” Predaking snapped, bearing his fangs, “especially when you are so clearly wrong. It should be evident to even the most dull-witted mech that the Covenant is a flawed document. Like those who encoded it, the text does _not go far enough_. It hints at the grand destiny of the Cybertronian race, hiding it in rhetoric for fear of panicking the ignorant masses.”

“How do you figure?” Insecticon challenged. The bug showed considerably more backbone than Predaking felt appropriate, given the circumstances.

“Even the Covenant mentions the Great Dragon,” he hissed proudly.

Terror echoed around them. Predaking closed his optics and breathed in deeply, inhaling the scent of horror. “Such bliss,” he said, letting the fear-tinged air flow back out his lungs and mouth. “It has been many, many vorns since I allowed myself to enjoy the fruits of a hunt so fully. The trap has been sprung; fresh bait has been laid out…” he kicked the cell, “…and, soon, the prey will arrive. All is as it should be. Yes.”

“Except,” Sky Shadow called, “for this device. We need to talk, Predaking.”

The dragon rankled. “Do we, now?”

Sky Shadow’s complaints washed over him. The former neutralist wanted to know what alterations had been made to the device – specifically, why it had sent radiation shooting not only into the Global Space Bridge, but into the geodesic dome that formed the humans’ science centre. He wanted to know why the skies had turned white.

And so Predaking told him.

The dawning realisation, on the faces of both his mechs, was _delicious_. Predaking’s good mood returned as, with enthusiasm, he took both Insecticon and Sky Shadow through his master plan. Like Side Burn before them, the duo seemed almost _sick_ with adulation, _nauseous_ with anticipation.

“Thanks to Armourhide’s arm, the device and the reflective surfaces of this human building,” Predaking finished, flaring his new wings for emphasis, “the Earth is now _out of synch_ with the rest of the universe! We occupy a different stream in time, a different plane of existence, from all those who would seek to interfere!

“And here we shall remain, safe and cocooned, until Cybertron arrives. Then, once our home world occupies Earth’s place in this solar system, we shall deactivate the device and _merge_ the planets together – a metamorphosis that will transform Primus itself into the biggest, greatest Transmetal of all!”

He waited for applause. He received only stunned silence.

“You’re insane,” Insecticon breathed. “I’ve suspected it, all these vorns, and now it’s been confirmed. You’re totally, utterly mad.” He shuddered. “Worse than Megatron, than Flame Convoy, because you actually _believe_ this lunacy will work.”

The bug activated his weapons systems. His beast mode legs flipped up and transformed into machine guns, each one trained on the Transmetal’s red hide. Insecticon’s optics were colder – darker – than ever before.

“I’m glad I’ve been here, watching you, all this time,” he cackled. There was a small object in his left hand – a communications transmitter. “If not for me ‘bugging’ your precious cathedral, there’d be no way for _us_ to stop you.”

Predaking’s whole body tensed with animalistic fury. “You,” he thundered. “You are the traitor! It wasn’t Skid-Z after all… you foul, wretched _unbeliever_!”

Insecticon shook his head and laughed. “Oh no, Predaking,” he corrected. “ _I_ believe. I believe in what’s really right in this universe – what is true, and permanent, and forever. I believe in a cause and a way of life you’ll never understand… in a leader you could never emulate. My faith is in someone far higher than _garbage_ like you.”

He raised his podgy right arm to the sky. “You should’ve read the Covenant properly,” he quipped. “ _And as it were a great mountain, raging with fire, arose from the sea._ ”

Hovering above them all was a flying island – a mass of metal and steel that filled the entire area above the city. It wasn’t just an island, Predaking realised – it was a grotesque, unnatural _head_ , a Grand Mal of destruction that, as he watched, grew jaws and terrible teeth.

From out the abomination’s mouth poured a vast phalanx of soldiers. In both robot and jet modes they came, clad in armour of purple and blue. Predaking felt the vibrations of their engines cleave through his armour; his newly organic stomach twisted with anxiety and tension. Warriors more familiar followed the fifty-strong armada of drones… legendary names like Soundwave, Obsidian and Tankor.

Above them all – foot thrusters lowering him at a regal pace, the white light of the skies glinting off his gold-and-ruby crown – was Starscream.

“And a mighty warrior came down from the sky,” the aerial warrior crowed, “And a rainbow was on his head, and his feet were as pillars of fire.”

With obvious relish, Starscream activated his Force Chip. Crackling, purple blades of null-ray energy sprang forth from his arms.

“And the Great Dragon was cast out upon the Earth,” he said, grinning malevolently, “and his followers were cast out with him.”

Predaking took to the air, meeting his foe halfway. The powerful beings collided with calamitous force – but Starscream’s expression remained unchanged. The zealot roared furiously, slashing and tearing with his animalistic weaponry, but the smirking killer evaded every blow.

“How dare you?” Predaking boomed. “You have no place in this universe anymore, Starscream! You and your metallic kin are an anachronism – failed life forms fit only to fertilise the plants that bloom on the edges of the True Path!”

The Decepticon’s façade did not shift as he raised his left hand and brandished a small remote control. Casually, he thumbed the single red button, set in its centre.

The change was instant. Predaking’s enhanced senses picked up a new panic in the air… the panic of his own disciples. Cruel Lock’s Energon sword had flickered out, while Battle Ravage’s guns had jammed. Chromia had been forced to throw her multi-missile launcher away for fear it would explode in her hand – two of its munitions had jammed in their silos. Wheeljack, Wreckloose, even the Mini-cons… they’d all been disarmed.

“Swindle,” Predaking raged.

“Those who live and war as beasts,” Starscream hissed, “face their _final cycle_.”

\-----

At first, they’d argued. The scientists, the technicians… those who considered themselves the powers in the agency. They’d looked her up and down – gazes equal parts lecherous and dismissive – and asked what right _she_ had to ignore the chain of command.

Didn’t she know the whole world had gone mad? It seemed as if the entire global population had spontaneously rioted, the moment the skies went white. Governments would have declared a state of emergency, had anyone remained at their post. Presidents and Prime Ministers had gone into hiding. The streets of every city were over-run with looters and violent freaks looking to vent their anguish at someone – anyone.

Unlike the Cold War, or the War on Terror, this crisis was _immediate_. The skies were white. The moon and sun and stars had all disappeared. No one knew if the atmosphere was next, or how long there would be breathable air. And still, the self-important snobs had demanded to know the rationale behind her “hubris”.

Then the hangar doors had opened. Sideways had stepped out. The true founder of the agency – the real G.B. Blackrock – was revealed to all and sundry… and, finally, heads were removed from asses so people could _mobilise_.

For the short time she’d held supreme power within the agency, Junko had acted in secret. Now, the blue-haired woman _revelled_ in her moment. She would have felt complete satisfaction it not for the look on Franklin’s face.

In a strange way, the smouldering, betrayed look suited him. “You should have told me,” he growled. “We’re partners, damn it.”

“There’s no rule that says you have to know everything about me,” she replied, reaching into her desk drawer for her sabot pistol. It felt reassuring in her hand.

“That’s not the point,” Franklin spat forcefully. “You played us… you played _me_. You knew the robot we captured was the real Blackrock – and you used that information to take over.” He glared at her. “What else have you done that we don’t know about?”

_The room was dark, lit only by the green glow of the life support machines. Junko measured them up, trying to discern which wires she’d need to cut. Killing the man, outright, would leave forensic evidence. Disabling the life-support machines would sound an alarm and bring doctors running – not to mention the police officer right outside. Some sort of drug would be best, but she didn’t know where to…_

A shiver ran through her body. “Nothing at all,” she croaked.

“Right,” Franklin snapped. “Sure.”

“I don’t need you to believe me,” she sighed, walking away. “There are robots to kill.”

Her plan was simple. The Transformers were undoubtedly responsible for the chaos. They would, therefore, be able to reverse the process. And they would be forced to do so by a horde of agents, clad in giant exo-skeletons - the robotic suits of armour she had commissioned, via “Blackrock”, weeks before. No one had questioned the instruction – that wasn’t how the agency worked – even if they’d wondered, sometimes aloud, why the group’s mission seemed to be changing from debunking wild theories to warmongering. And if the head engineer, McFly, could quickly kit out a large group of agents they’d have a fighting chance of taking down the mechs before more people died.

A loud cough made her flinch. No human had a voice that loud.

“Is this the part where we charge into battle?” Sideways asked. The oily con-mech was propped against a wall, flexing his right arm. “I always had trouble with that. Whether it was Optimus Prime leading from the front, or Starscream pushing from the rear, that gung-ho willingness to throw oneself headlong at the enemy always eluded me.

“It’s kind of nonsensical. On one side you’ve got the Decepticons: ‘evil’ power-hungry psychopaths determined to rule the universe. They don’t care who or what they step on, as they trudge the road to conquest. On the other, you’ve got ‘good’ Autobots, each one ready to fight to their last microchip, all to defend innocent life.”

He shrugged. “Kind of wasteful, no? Engines of destruction versus self-sacrificing shields of liberty, with millions of lives in the middle.” He sighed. “If _only_ there were some other group – non-aligned, independent, free – to sweep the poor, weak and defenceless out of the way. Before the shooting starts, not after.”

Junko bristled.

“Wouldn’t that just be amazing?” Sideways continued. “A group – a team, even – capable of putting aside petty considerations like vengeance, or settling the score, or even their own personal crusades, for the sake of everyone around them! Gosh, maybe I ought to write this down. It’s an idea that mind find application, sometime soon…”

“Why do you care?” she snapped.

Again, he shrugged. “Truthfully, I don’t. I mean, I’d hate to see a planet full of potential customers – all that _access_ – get slagged. Aside from that, I’m frightfully unconcerned. You know, apart from my own pet theory on how lovely it is to be able to make up one’s own mind, unaffected by programmed sub-routines.”

He looked, meaningfully, at her – but she couldn’t see him. Her vision was clouded by memories. A three-headed dragon scorching the earth around her; a robotic scorpion madly lashing out. Metal titans leaping across freeways; a technorganic lizard glowing brighter than the sun. A group of cats reassembling a mighty warrior; a tender, simian face saying goodbye. A rip in space robbing her of something special; a burning hatred filling the gap in her heart… poisoning her with the lust for revenge.

_Murashita Murakami enjoyed questioning the nature of existence; the need for war, the motivation for murder. His playgrounds were morality and ethics – the same sort of ground trod by those whose thoughts were Machiavellian._

Junko had been prepared to sacrifice her ethics to safeguard the world. That end would justify her means – the annihilation of every Transformer on Earth. Or so she’d believed. Once again, she’d become a puzzle for her father… and an embarrassment to herself.

“How many politicians are in your pocket?” she asked.

“I doubt there’s one that _doesn’t_ owe me a favour,” he replied. “Why?”

“Call them in,” she said, holstering the weapon, “all of them. No bureaucrat, no military leader on the face of this planet, knows what’s going on. Neither do we, granted, but we’re equipped to handle robots and their schemes. This agency is going to co-opt every duly-appointed authority in the world and ensure the human race lives to see tomorrow.”

\-----

“Hold him down, dammit,” Downshift snapped, struggling with the patient’s thrashing leg. “I can’t do this by myself!”

Rodimus caught a fist to the jaw and grunted. He recovered quickly, wrestling the objecting hand and its flailing limb to the ground. “You make it sound like it should be easy,” he growled.

Help finally came. Jazz took the patient’s other arm while Smokescreen grabbed his other leg. Scattorshot and Zapmaster dog-piled their diminutive frames onto the mech’s chest. Nightbeat was at the tortured robot’s head, talking softly and trying to sooth him. It wasn’t working. Checkpoint had gone right off the deep end.

Not that it was his fault. The Autobots were almost at the city when the sky went white. While they hadn’t noticed a change in environmental conditions, Checkpoint most certainly had. His senses, keener than those of any living being, went haywire – an overload of changed stimuli and data now threatened to crash his processor, without urgent medical assistance.

His frightening appearance wasn’t helping matters any. The terrified humans that streamed past, already running for their lives, were even more distressed by the sight of giant robots holding down one of their own, like he was some kind of mad dog.

“Armourhide,” Downshift barked, “take the anaesthetic out of my leg pouch and dose Checkpoint up, will you?”

The commando had his back to them, and was trying to stop the humans trampling one another. “Sorry ta say,” he groused, “I’m more concerned wit’ da’ fate a da locals, who’re getting’ slaughtered by da stinking Terrorcons, dan I am with listenin’ t’ da orders of a freaking whack-job!”

Scattorshot was thrown off Checkpoint’s frame and clanged, unglamorously, on the ground. “Then how ‘bout ya listen t’ me, ya whiney protoform,” he snapped, “an’ do what the damn doctor tells ya to?”

Fuming, Armourhide ran across and snatched up the drill-tipped injector. As one, the RIDs and SWAT Autobots wrestled Checkpoint over onto his front. Nightbeat held his best friend’s head down, against the blacktop, as Armourhide drove the needle into the base of the security specialist’s neck. The viral program worked almost instantly; Checkpoint’s entire frame relaxed and he moaned softly.

“How much did you give him?” Rodimus asked, stretching a sore arm.

“Enough to deactivate his sensor net,” Downshift said, rubbing his wrists, “but not enough to knock him out. I figure we’ll need every mech on deck because, unless I miss my guess, Predacon’s managed to duplicate my time-shift effect on a global scale.”

“Gee,” Armourhide sneered. “I wonder how _dat_ happened.”

Downshift ignored him. “That means we’re cut off from the rest of the universe,” he gulped, “including potential reinforcements from Cybertron.”

Checkpoint struggled to his feet, helped by the twins. “Sorry, everyone,” he rasped.

“S’okay, man,” Jazz chuckled. “I figure we drop you into the middle o’ a bunch o’ Terrorcons, then get the doc over there t’ deactivate the anaesthetic. That funky break-dancing o’ yours’ll take down a beastie or three in no time flat.”

They all laughed nervously – a brief respite from the grisly tableau ahead of them. Internally, Rodimus pushed down on the sense of unease claiming his Spark. It was a sensation he’d not felt since Unicron’s defeat, when his Matrix-enhanced sensors were at their peak. Back then, he’d detected the presence of some ominous but hidden threat… a malevolent force lurking behind the scenes… and been unable to identify it.

Had it been Predacon? He could see the zealot – at least, he _assumed_ it was the zealot – looping through the air in a new, crimson body. Somehow he’d upgraded from a dinosaur into a dragon and was, now, dog-fighting with Starscream.

The Autobots had not failed to notice the arrival of the Decepticons. For a decade, their eternal enemies had been missing in action… now, at the worst of all possible times, they’d returned. And in a whanging great star ship, to boot.

“We’re slagged,” Smokescreen whispered, first to acknowledge the threat.

“Totally,” Jazz agreed. “Ain’t no way th’ nine o’ us can handle Decepticons as well as Terrorcons. We all gonna be crispy, ice cold slag by th’ end o’ this.”

Smokescreen grinned wryly. “Hell of a way to go out,” he nodded.

Jazz smiled at his doppelganger. “Ain’t no thing,” he agreed. “Th’ Well o’ All Sparks is a cool place to hang, no doubt. Hope it’s got some good music t’ dance to.”

Downshift clapped them on their backs. “That’s if we can hear the music,” he said, “over the top of all our friends, shouting because they’re happy to see us.”

Armourhide spat on the ground. “Yer a bunch a’ morons,” he said, hefting his assault rifle in both hands. “Let’s go kill some freaking ‘cons already, all right?”

“I ain’t gonna lie t’ you boys,” Scattorshot drawled, “I ain’t seen odds this bad since th’ Battle o’ Iacon. We lived through that, but th’ chances o’ living through this one stink. Still, we gotta try. Ten years back, most o’ us promised we’d give our lives fer this planet, if need be. And the SWATs, well, they vowed t’ do everythin’ in their power ta rid th’ universe o’ the Decepticons forever. Seems like our missions just collided, eh?”

Everyone rumbled agreement.

Rodimus stood at Scattorshot’s side and took a deep breath. “This is the point where we’d look to Optimus,” he admitted. “But he’s not here, right now. That means we’ve got to look to each other instead – we need to look to our team. We haven’t done so well at that, lately, so we’ll have to mend our ways. And we’ll have to do it under fire.”

He stepped forward, fixing his friends – his brothers in arms – with a strong, confident stare. “But live or die,” he said, his voice rising, “lose or win, we make our stand _here_. I don’t care if I go down, so long as my death saves human lives.” He was yelling now. “Who’s with me?”

The Autobots cheered. The young cavalier felt the tension in his Spark ease. Maybe destiny was wrong. Perhaps he’d die today, long before he took command of the Autobots. So what? You couldn’t live for prophecy; you couldn’t allow a supposed destiny to control your present. Rodimus, at long last, understood. He had to live… and, maybe, _die_ … in the now, and let the consequences fall where they may.

“This a boy’s only thing,” came a voice over the inter-Autobot radio, “or are girls allowed to play, too?”

Rodimus’ Spark sang as Arcee came over the rise. The valkyrie transformed and ran across to them, her longbow drawn and ready.

“Thought I’d even the odds a bit,” she said, then smiled at Rodimus. “Or at the very least, make sure I go down with my friends.”

The cavalier returned the smile. _Now_ he was ready to die. “I wouldn’t have it any other way, lady femme,” he said.

\-----

“Logic would dictate razing the city with this vessel’s armaments,” Shockblast announced clinically. “However, that concept carries with it a hint of illogical thought; in doing so, we would kill the very soldiers Starscream wishes to convert to our cause. Logic therefore demands we engage the enemy in hand-to-hand combat – hence the need to disarm them, from the start. And,” he muttered distastefully, “hence the need to leave _you_ alive, to provide the tactical advice we require.

Magnus glared at the cyclops. “What a wonderful group we make,” he deadpanned. “A one-armed-one-eyed Decepticon; a captive Autobot; a bunch of humans and a murderous turncoat.” He jerked a thumb at Thundercracker. “Aren’t you surprised to see him?”

Shockblast scoffed, his antennae twitching. “Little done by your inefficient faction surprises me, Ultra Magnus. Logically, you would seek to free your comrades at the first available opportunity – incapacitating our new Mini-cons in the process. However, even your vaunted improvisational skills could not account for the speed with which we have arrived at the battlefield, thereby removing your opportunity to escape.

“The only course left to you, now, is to fulfil your original bargain and assist in the Decepticon reclamation of our… rogue element. Otherwise, I will employ this vessel against your comrades and your base, both of which I have finally managed to locate.”

“The only _logical_ course,” Magnus said.

“But of course,” Shockblast said, a trace of self-importance creeping into his notoriously-monotone voice.

“A logical course of action that relies, totally, on your ability to _use_ the ship’s weapons before Thundercracker or I break you into tiny pieces,” Magnus growled.

Again, the scientist scoffed. “What you say is asinine. My level of interface with this vessel is at a near-psychic level. It was _designed_ thusly. Neither you nor your ally are any more well equipped than I for combat, and neither of you can move quicker than the speed of thought.”

“We don’t have to,” Magnus rasped. “You’re already beaten, Shockblast. Look at who you’re facing: the military mind that drove the Decepticons from Cybertron and the remorseless fighter who took your arm and kept it as a trophy. The mech who broke your brain and the mech who broke your body; all alone, with you, in this cavernous fortress. A place so big, so empty, that no one will be able to hear you scream.”

Shockblast, for the first time in millions of years, _blinked_.

“And I swear to you,” Magnus said, his voice thick with malevolence, “that if you manage to loose so much as one missile, Thundercracker and I will systematically short-out _every last diode_ in your chassis until all that’s left of you is a processor roasting, slowly, over the flaming shards of your ruined carcass.”

The Decepticon did not react… at first. As Magnus watched, the scientist’s single optic grew dimmer… fainter… and then went out.

Thundercracker waved an obsidian hand in front of the comatose Decepticon. “What the frell did you do to him?” he asked, his trademark apathy replaced by awe.

“Broke his brain… again,” Magnus said. “Though he didn’t know it, Shockblast – and every other Decepticon – has been soaking up the ‘Dirge song’ for a decade. Their self-confidence is in shambles, their insecurities are at fever pitch and their mental defences are almost non-existent. Shockblast has been living in mortal fear – of you, especially – all that time. His processor simply couldn’t cope with such a direct threat, such inescapable danger and so shorted out… dropped him into protective stasis.”

Koji whistled. “You lobotomised him.”

Magnus nodded. “Unfortunately, that’s not going to work on every Decepticon down there.” He concentrated for a moment, summoning the blue Planet Key from subspace. It hovered in the air and flared momentarily – seconds later Magnus’ weapon, Blue Bolts, flew into the room, buoyed on an aura of cobalt energy. He snatched it up.

“Follow the energy trail back to where it started,” Magnus said to Thundercracker, “and you’ll find the armoury. Load up. Get Koji and the other humans to ground level, then rendezvous with Arcee. She’ll have met up with the other Autobots. Get Scattorshot to organise the counter-attack.”

“Scattorshot?” Thundercracker sneered. “Where are you going?”

Magnus didn’t answer. He transformed, folding his body up into a massive blue-and-white car carrier. Powerful engines fired; the truck left thick swathes of black rubber in its wake. The Earthforce commander paid no heed to the yawning chasm in front of him, driving unswervingly out the ship’s jaws and into mid-air.

He transformed, again, as he fell, activating his rocket pack. As he accelerated, he thrust Blue Bolts out in front of him like a bayonet. When he pulled the trigger, the assault rifle’s barrel crackled with azure lightning… an electrical discharge that Magnus thrust into the small space between his struggling targets: Predaking and Starscream.

Decepticon and Terrorcon howled in pain. Starscream let go of his opponent and tumbled away. Magnus gripped Predaking tightly, ignoring the burn of the lightning, and fired his boosters again. As one, they plummeted into the top of the geodesic dome. They crashed through, impacting thunderously in the centre of the main conference room.

Magnus picked himself up and brushed plaster from his chassis. Nearby, Predaking rolled over, flexing wings and claws, and roared angrily.

“For this infamy,” he snarled, optics ablaze with hatred, “you will die a thousand deaths!”

“Spare me,” Magnus spat derisively. “This is where your little guerrilla war started, zealot, and this is where it’s going to end!”


	2. Chapter 2

Red lines crackled across the sky. As Grimlock watched, the bands of Energon thickened, weaving themselves first into a net and then a shield. More raw power funnelled up from Cybertron’s core and out its numerous towers, forming a defensive grid. Achingly slowly, the shimmering wall shielded the planet’s inhabitants from the unimaginable gravitational stresses they were under.

“About frelling time, too,” the Dinobot grumbled as he lay prone on the ground. He transformed and stood back up. “System meant to work faster than that.”

Red Alert, designer of the Energon Grid, rose shakily to his feet. “It is,” he agreed, “though we’ve never had to employ it under such duress. And the grid was designed to protect Cybertron from orbital bombardment, not interstellar travel.”

Grimlock looked to the horizon, and Kalis. The Omega Lock – he knew its name, now – towered over the landscape. Crimson Energon discharges crackled around its midsection, unable to form a net over an object so immense.

The Dinobot wanted, very badly, to bring the ancient star cruiser down. There were Terrorcons aboard it, somewhere; mad religious freaks taking control of Primus for their own reasons. He didn’t know what those reasons were and, quite frankly, didn’t give a slag. They were ‘cons and they were messing with his command – so they were going to _die_ , pure and simple.

He drew his Energon axe. “Where we at, universally?” he barked.

Red Alert paused as he communicated, silently, over the inter-Autobot radio. “According to Swerve, we’re headed for the Milky Way galaxy,” he said gloomily. “Specifically, Earth. But… well, according to the telemetry Silverstreak’s been doing, Earth isn’t actually _there_ anymore.”

Grimlock snorted. “Think Silverstreak gone bit soft in head.”

“And there’s another problem,” Red Alert continued. “Unicron’s head… sorry, the new Mini-con home world… has been pulled along for the ride. Fortunately, Cybertron’s shielding it from both the gravitational pressure and the massive heat of Primus’ cannons.”

“One less worry,” the Dinobot replied. “Get freaky little beast-cons over here, fast. Want back-up to storm Omega Lock and kick Terrorcon butt. Tiny animals good fighters but not have mettle yet; this be their baptism of fire.”

He stormed across to a communications port and entered his security code. In seconds, Grimlock had command of every radio frequency, view screen and loudspeaker on the planet. He _was_ the voice of Cybertron.

“Autobots and weakling civilians – shut up and listen,” he roared. “Dirtwad Terrorcons trying to slam Cybertron into Earth. Me no going to let that happen. Me also not care if you tired, want rest, need to put feet up – me Grimlock say you grab nearest gun and get to Iacon, ready to kick butt like old days. Move!”

Over the vorns, many had doubted Grimlock’s leadership skills. Many a loud debate had labelled him no more than a throwback, a bully, a would-be Decepticon sided with the Autobots out of wounded pride, not nobility. He’d never paid attention to such nonsense. Optimus had offered him a place, and a role, and he’d fulfilled it faithfully. True, he’d once desired overall control of the Autobots, but Grimlock had long since resigned himself to the truth. Though his rank said “lieutenant commander”, he was best suited to be the sergeant-at-arms, the drill-instructing top-kick who drove his mechs onto death or glory.

Over the vorns, many had doubted Grimlock’s leadership skills… but none would this day. Red Alert was quickly joined by Swoop, Silverstreak, Vector Prime and Swerve. Incinerator and Slag took up flanking positions, as did Sparkle and her Civilian Defence Corps. No sooner had a message been transmitted than the Mini-cons joined the group; the wolf Carnivac nodding respectfully. As he scanned the rapidly growing armada, Grimlock could see many a retired mech polishing an Autobrand, or re-loading a forgotten weapons system, readying themself for the battle ahead.

He snorted once, happily, and roared. “For Cybertron!”

Reborn, the Autobot army answered his call… and charged the Omega Lock.

\-----

Like the wolf he was, Snarl watched and waited.

The conflict that stretched out before him was _fascinating_. It was staggering to think how many enmities, how many grudges, existed within the enemy ranks. Loosed upon one another, animals versus psychopaths, Decepticon and Terrorcon ripped into one another with unprecedented savagery. The beasts were horrifically outnumbered, but gave no quarter to their numerically-superior foes.

A building shattered, nearby, as Starscream ploughed through it. The hail of debris did nothing to deter Battle Ravage. The jaguar’s entire focus was on his former master, Soundwave. The communicator and his pet, Laserbeak, were forced to go on the defensive as the animal leapt, clawed, bit and scratched his hated tormentors. Centuries of resentment fuelled Battle Ravage better than any Energon – made his bestial weaponry more lethal than any munition – and Soundwave was learning, to his regret, an unarmed jaguar was no less deadly.

Chromia… Snarl’s would-be “beloved”… was pinned down in the water. For every Dirge or Skywarp she knocked out of the air, four more would converge upon her. Near-constant bombardments from Tidal Wave and his crew of Mini-cons only made her situation worse. The drones had less success with Crumplezone; the Speedian behemoth was simply too dull-witted to notice the damage he was sustaining. Methodically, he would catch Dirge units and dash their heads against the bitumen, then throw their remains at any Skywarp foolish enough to teleport too close.

Predaking’s pet Mini-cons couldn’t stand up to the flying ferocity of Slugslinger. Though they were tiny, no target was too small for the remorseless sharp-shooter. His mistake, though, was to fly too close to a skyscraper – giving Cruel Lock the chance to leap upon his back and start _slashing_. The Decepticon howled furiously, taking evasive action in a vain attempt to shake off the murderous velociraptor. Long claws and powerful feet kept Cruel Lock in place, while his diamond-tipped teeth made short work of Slugslinger’s dual cockpits.

For a moment, the white wolf was homesick for the killing fields of Animatros.

Snarl padded softly through the chaos. Predaking’s ascension, and the sudden call-to-arms, had robbed him of his opportunity to free Kicker and Misha. The humans were perched atop the science centre building – and, thanks to Starscream’s interference, were unguarded. If he were to fulfil his debt of honour – if he were to _free_ himself from the shackles of his past – Snarl had to act now.

\-----

Obsidian was too fast, and Tankor was too slow. Normally, Rodimus would have made something of that dichotomy, but there was no time. Instead, he activated his Force Chip and hyper-accelerated – moving almost as fast as his best friend, Blur. The strain on his Spark was immediate but he endured it, using his precious seconds of super-speed to clip Obsidian’s rotors and slash Tankor’s legs with his vibro-blades.

As he ghosted back into the normal passage of time, Rodimus saw the former warlords of Kalis fall painfully to the ground. He danced away, quickly, as Wreckloose set upon them, howling his intent to “redress old wrongs”.

“Maybe we didn’t need to get involved at all,” he quipped. “Given enough time, the various ‘cons will take each other out.”

“True,” Jazz agreed, snapping off another barrage at Demolishor, “but they’d take down th’ humans at th’ same time, too. Ain’t somethin’ I want on my conscience.”

Smokescreen hurtled past them, trailing a thick black cloud, then zipped around their perimeter. The wall of “smart smoke” rose up around the trio as the diversionary tactician transformed. Concealed, the race car warriors unleashed a devastating hail of laser fire, missiles and assorted ordnance. Familiar voices – Snow Cat, Rumble, Runamuck – yelped and squealed in protest.

“This ain’t right,” Jazz mused, pausing to reload his missile launchers. “These kind of odds, the ‘cons should’ve fragged us from the get-go. They ain’t fighting like a well-oiled machine. They’re fighting like they’re, well, scared of somethin’.”

“Wonders will never cease,” sneered a voice from above. “An Autobot _finally_ clues on to what’s happening around him. Am _az_ ing.”

Like a dagger of midnight itself, Thundercracker stabbed down between them. He cradled three smaller beings – Koji and two human women, one of whom was unconscious. The arrival rallied the rest of the Autobots, who converged within the cloud as Thundercracker explained the “Dirge song”.

“Damn,” Smokescreen whistled sarcastically. “Thank Primus we’re all on the same page already, eh? Things would have been _really_ messy otherwise! Sheesh!”

The ex-Decepticon handed the humans to Jazz, then glared at Scattorshot. “Magnus says you’re supposed to organise the counter-attack,” he said, dryly. “Personally, I’m thinking of changing sides again, just to guarantee my survival. Anyone with me?”

Arcee punched him in the midsection.

“Magnus is alive?” Scattorshot asked. His optics widened as a goofy grin spread across his face plate. “Well hell, mechs, we’re sure as shootin’ gonna survive this little fire-fight, now! Let’s figger us out some tactics!”

Hurried conversation, bordering on argument, followed. Checkpoint, Smokescreen and Armourhide kept their attentions focused beyond the black cloud, cutting off anyone – Decepticon or Terrorcon – that approached. Nightbeat, Downshift and the other “brains” debated a course of action. Jazz saw to the humans. Thundercracker yawned and polished his wing sword.

“Incoming,” Armourhide yelled suddenly. “I can’t pin dis little bastard down!”

A fireball punctured the wall of smoke, creating a whole through which a tiny red dragon hurtled. The creature – a Transmetal Mini-con – flew rings around Smokescreen and Checkpoint, befuddling their aim. Armourhide tried to draw a proper bead, only to be lashed by the dragon’s serrated tail.

“Stop shooting at me, or I’ll singe your hands off,” the miniature beast roared. “I’m an Autobot, just like you! My name’s Side Burn – I’m a deep cover agent, dammit!”

Off to one side, Rodimus saw Jazz stir. “Izzat so?” the master spy asked. “Then you’d be able t’ give th’ proper authorisation code, wouldn’t you?”

The shooting stopped. The dragon hovered in mid air. “Do it with style,” he gasped, panting with exertion, “or don’t bother doing it.”

“Frelling hack,” Smokescreen breathed. “Side Burn, what did you do to yourself?”

The Mini-con looked at the twins closely, peering into their optics. “Crosswise?” he asked, incredulous. “WARS? Like either of _you_ can talk about changes!”

The reunion was happy, but it robbed the Autobots of defensive capability. Arcee and Nightbeat stepped up to replace the Bugattis, while Armourhide muttered about “hidden alliances”. Side Burn, meanwhile, lapsed into a rapid-fire explanation of Predaking’s plan… a concept that made Rodimus physically ill.

Downshift shook his head. “It won’t work,” he said. “The technology’s not designed to handle that kind of stress. All that idiot’s going to succeed in doing is detonating Earth _and_ Cybertron. It’s genocide!”

“It’s my fault,” Rodimus sighed. “I should have destroyed Dirt Boss’ blasted Force Chip when I had the chance, back on Speedia. If I hadn’t brought the shards back… if I hadn’t let the Autobots create the time-shift technology…”

“Ex _cuze_ me,” Armourhide interrupted, “but it weren’t da Autobots who created da time-shift technology – it was Downshift! Like I bin saying all along, dat lunatic’s responsible fer alla our problems! He probably gave da schematics to da Terrorcons, helped ‘em thinkin’ he was ‘saving da world’ or somethin’, and den…”

“Actually,” Side Burn interjected, “it’s all _your_ fault, Armourhide. Predaking’s device runs on ambient Speedian radiation… and the source of that radiation is the arm you lost in the Global Space Bridge.”

Everyone fell silent. Even the Autobots guarding the perimeter stopped shooting. All optics locked onto Armourhide. For a moment, Rodimus thought the commando was going to go into stasis lock, just out of shock. Instead, the bulky, diminutive mech wobbled in place, his lower lip quivering, and said nothing.

“Well,” Scattorshot said brightly, “I guess that’s _finally_ th end o’ that nonsense. An’ it gives us a clear plan o’ what t’ do next, too.” He started pointing. “Rodimus, I need you t’ lead a group t’ the science centre. Give Downshift as much cover as y’ can, so he can disable Predaking’s device and get us back in th’ real world.”

“What about Cybertron?” Nightbeat asked.

“Hope an’ pray Grimlock knows what he’s doin’, and c’n stop it,” Scattorshot breathed. “The rest o’ ya are with me. We’re on crowd control. Rodimus is right – the ‘cons are gonna take each other out, if we’re careful enough t’ let ‘em. That makes th’ humans our main responsibility – keep ‘em out o’ th’ line o’ fire, get ‘em to safe ground as quickly as ya can, then keep the ‘cons away from th’ dome.

“Ah _know_ y’all can do this. The ‘cons, they’re not used t’ facing down their demons – wrestling with their own guilt n’ shame. We mechs, hell, that’s about all we done fer 10 years. But we swore that time was over; here’s our chance t’ prove it – Dirge song or no. Y’all know what ya done right an’ wrong… keep focused, stay on target, watch each other’s backs and win this thing. We clear?”

As one, the Autobots nodded.

“I’m going with Rodimus,” Koji said, his face firm. “I have to find out what happened to my parents, and the only one who’s going to know is Predacon.”

“That puts me on your team too, kid,” Jazz said to Rodimus.

“And me.” Rodimus turned – Armourhide had finally spoken. His expression was ashen, his posture slumped and defeated. He said no more.

“I’m not about to argue with anyone as suicidal as me,” Rodimus grinned weakly. “Downshift, Jazz, Armourhide, Koji… transform and roll out!”

At his command, the group began to move. Rodimus spared a glance at Arcee – she and Thundercracker were taking Koji’s hysterical aunt and the unconscious woman to safety – and thought, longingly, of what might have been. But that was just as useless as trying to live up to a prophecy, wasn’t it?

Tucking his emotions away in a deep part of his Spark, the cavalier transformed and accelerated into the madness.

\-----

Ultra Magnus swung his rifle, like a club, at Predaking’s head. The beast deflected the blow with a weapon of his own – a long, crimson spear with a jewelled shield in its centre. Pivoting with his own momentum, Magnus dropped to one knee and fired a volley of machine-gun bullets. Snarling, Predaking parried the shots and plunged forward, trying to impale the Autobot.

Magnus was too quick. He rocked back and brought up his long legs, catching Predaking under the jaw. He kicked the zealot over and toward the far wall; the beast recovered in mid-air, used his wings as brakes and floated gently to the floor.

“You can’t hope to defeat me, Autobot,” he sneered contemptuously. “Even your own religion is against you! I _am_ the Great Dragon foreseen by your ridiculous Council of Elders – by your own ‘father’, Alpha Trion! All shall be as was written, long ago: _And there came a hero who said: ‘hurt not the Earth, nor the seas, nor the trees, nor the very fabric of time’. But the hero would not prevail…_ ”

A chunk of masonry flew across the room and slammed into Predaking’s head. The beast whirled, dazed, directly into the path of two air-to-air missiles. From behind his rifle’s targeting sight, Magnus glowered.

“Don’t you _dare_ quote the Covenant to me, you disgusting aberration,” he fumed.

Predaking shook his head clear. “Ooh. Touchy. My point, however, remains unchanged. There is no way in this universe you can stop me, Ultra Magnus. Cybertron will arrive in this solar system in a matter of minutes; the time-shift technology means you can summon no assistance. Yes.

“And even if you could, what would you do? Combine with your pathetic brother? Would the allegedly mighty Omega Prime engage me in hand-to-hand combat? _Please_. Even the mightiest Transformer is merely metal; I am something new… something evolved… the first of a race that will inherit the universe! I am power incarnate, and I will not be denied my destiny!

“That sounds familiar,” Magnus laughed bitterly. “I’ve heard it all before. It’s the same garbage Flame Convoy used to spout, before I _beat the living Spark out of him_. You’re just like your fallen god, ‘Predaking’ – a carbon copy. A repaint.”

The zealot’s eyes burned. His jaw worked soundlessly, then contorted into a grimace of unbridled fury. Before Magnus’ disbelieving optics, Predaking folded in on himself – not transforming, but shape-shifting – into a colossal crimson beast, easily standing twice the Autobot’s height.

“I am _nothing_ like Flame Convoy!” he roared.

“Says the mech who just changed into a two-headed dragon,” Magnus deadpanned.

Predaking belched enormous clouds of fire. Magnus hunkered down, shielding his face with his arms, and let the scalding jets wash over him. The pain was immeasurable, and it was all he could do not to scream in agony. He focused, instead, on the plan that was rapidly forming in his processor.

Flame Convoy had been a dangerous foe because he totally controlled his abilities. He’d spent millions of years in the one body form and knew every trick he could pull. His downfall, ironically, came from gaining more power – granted command of ice, as well, he’d not known when to stop and so had come undone.

This idiot, well, he’d be lucky to have spent _days_ as a dragon. That lack of experience was something Magnus could exploit. A Transformer was always at his most vulnerable after reformatting – it’s why Optimus had trained so hard with Thundercracker – and most prone to exposing weaknesses. Including, but by no means limited to, the frailties of _organic life_.

As soon as the fireball passed over him, Magnus started running. He transformed to vehicle mode and drove rings around the infuriated dragon. Predaking vomited tonnes of billowing sulphur at his foe; Magnus paid it no mind. He’d have time to recover later – first, he had to survive.

It took time but, inevitably, Predaking’s reactions slowed. One of his heads stopped attacking and started coughing. It hacked and wheezed nauseatingly, and was soon joined in its torment by its twin. The dragon sank to his knees, tiny arms clutching his broad chest, as he gagged and gasped for air.

Magnus transformed, grabbed the ailing heads and slammed them together. “For an all-powerful being, you’re very slow on the uptake,” he spat. “Fire consumes oxygen. Transmetals need oxygen; Transformers don’t. You breathe enough fire in an enclosed space – like this dome – and you’ll burn up all the air. Add to that the carbon monoxide thrown out by a 10-wheeled car carrier, and an organic life form is going to have _severe_ problems. Just like the GSB, all over again.”

Predaking kept coughing. The noise grew ever sicker, ever more feeble. Magnus looked at the twisted mad-mech pityingly. He wondered if his remaining strength would be enough to drag the zealot out into the open air. Hopefully, seeing their defeated leader would demoralise the Terrorcons – and distract the Decepticons long enough for Scattorshot to pull off something fancy.

The beast hacked louder… and then started laughing. Horrifyingly, his body shimmered and morphed once again. The main mass flattened out and elongated, becoming knife-like. The wings bent at right angles and rose up as fins. The dragon’s tail moved to the front of its body and stretched out into a cockpit; the large jewels scattered across Predaking’s frame lowered to the ground, spinning like wheels. The twin heads, now at the rear of the freakish-looking vehicle, became rocket boosters that drove the Terrorcon leader directly at Magnus.

He could not evade his foe this time. Predaking’s spontaneous vehicle mode caught him square in the midsection, ramming him back out the science centre and onto the battlefield. Magnus had barely picked himself up before the “monster car” slammed into him again. He flipped and landed on the vehicle’s broad, flat roof.

Predaking began to change again. The dragon heads flipped around, almost crushing Magnus’s arms as they slotted into the vehicle’s roof. The wings turned backwards and flared out, lifting the newly-created jet mode into the air. From out the cockpit echoed a triumphant laugh.

Higher into the air they flew, almost level with the Decepticon base. Unexpectedly, the Terrorcon’s engines cut out and he transformed yet _again_. Cockpit, dragon heads, robot mode arms… they curled around Magnus like grotesque fingers. The main bulk of the Terrorcon curled, like the palm of a massive claw, and held him fast.

“Ten wheels, eh?” Predaking howled. “Pathetic! You, Ultra Magnus, are facing the ultimate Transmetal – the 10-mode terror! You are facing _death itself_!”

\-----

“Where scaly little creeps come from?”

Grimlock was talking with his mouth full. Silverstreak usually _hated_ that, but it didn’t really matter right at the moment. There were hundreds of red, yellow and blue spider-tanks to destroy – an army of annoying pests between him and the Omega Lock’s control room – and anything that took them out was, by default, a good thing.

“They’re called Flyers,” he yelled over the din. “They’re from Gigalonia!”

“Not care,” Grimlock rumbled. “When I done, them just be called ‘Scrapmetals’!”

Silverstreak laughed. Despite the frustration, they were making good progress. They’d breached the old ship’s hull and were, by his guess, half-way to the top. The Flyers had super-mechanical powers, sure – electricity, sonics, seismic attacks – but they couldn’t use them in concert. For every Autobot they injured, the Flyers demolished five of their own kind.

The gunner still wasn’t used to such close-quarters combat – sniping was, and always would be, his thing – but he was making his presence count. Working back-to-back with Sparkle was pure gold. Between her water cannon shorting out the yellow mechs, and his aim taking down the blues and reds, they were a formidable team.

“Just like your ‘dad’ and me, back in the day,” he smiled.

“Aw,” Sparkle demurred. “Thanks… uncle ‘Streak.”

“Hoi – watch it, you. I’m not _that_ old, yet.”

Vector Prime was just ahead of them, displeased as always. He loathed any conflict between the “Children of Primus”, and longed for a day all would be one. It seemed, to Silverstreak, any such day was _very_ far away… if it would ever come. Still, Vector Prime made short work of any Flyer insane enough to pit itself against his sword.

“By the Matrix,” the larger mech said suddenly. “This cannot be!”

“What now?” Grimlock sighed, treading on a squealing yellow tank.

“I can _sense_ it, the closer we draw to Earth,” Vector Prime continued. “A chaotic disruption in the fabric of space-time… the displacement of an entire world! Those responsible do not understand the forces they have unleashed. Left to fester, this wound could be as heinous as was the great black hole of Unicron!”

“So do something,” Grimlock snapped. “You all-mighty guardian of time and space. Leave raggedy pest-mechs to me and Autobots – go do job, stopwatch!”

“By the will of Primus, I shall,” Vector Prime intoned. Golden light flared from the dial set into his chest, cascading over the combatants. As it grew in intensity, the ancient warrior seemed to evaporate.

“Silverstreak,” Grimlock ordered. “Back him up.”

The gunner winced. “Why do I have to go on all the trips through time?”

“Because you keep coming back in one piece,” Swoop, flying overhead, crowed.

“Terrific,” Silverstreak groused. Nodding quickly to Sparkle, he dashed through the battle and made for the fading golden light. He made a dive for his comrade…

… and found himself far, _far_ above the Earth, rapidly falling away from Vector Prime.

The old mech looked completely different; his colours had almost reversed on themselves. Shocked red optics, set in a blue face plate and black helm, watched the gunner hurtle away. Silverstreak caught a glimpse of Vector Prime’s body – gold instead of silver, accented with orange instead of blue – before his chassis turned, in mid-air, to face the ground. It was coming up to meet him very, _very_ quickly.

“Slaaaaaaaaaag!” he cried.

\-----

He lay down cover fire, grateful – as always – for his “eyeball upgrade”.

It had been a long time since Scattorshot felt confident on the battlefield. For one, it had been a decade since he’d been involved in a big fracas. For another, his previous stints “in country” had been fouled by his long-sighted optics.

That wasn’t a problem anymore, thanks to the blue Planet Key. Its power had altered the yellow discs on his forehead. Now, they received all different sorts of data and stimuli, supplementing his vision. Rather than watching a missile, he “read” its telemetry. Energon signatures told him where the enemy was.

And seismic upheavals… like the one starting to build, under his feet… let him drop Rumble with a single shot to the head… like _that_.

Scattorshot’s crew were clearing a path for Rodimus’ team. In the distance… the place he _could_ see normally… Arcee and Thundercracker had shepherded the last of the human survivors out of the city limits. The ex-Decepticon had drawn his wing sword and Powerlinked with Zapmaster. He wanted _blood_.

The Autobot watched Rumble, a few feet away, drop into non-fatal stasis lock. Perfect. According to the readings, all of his life-signs were stable. He’d be able to be fixed in a CR chamber as soon as he… got back up?

He groaned. The figure stepping into his line of “sight” wasn’t Rumble at all… it was Starscream. The Decepticon still wore his crown, though he’d lost some regal bearing thanks to his impromptu meeting with the skyscraper.

“You probably don’t realise this,” Starscream breathed, “but you’re my arch-enemy.”

Scattorshot summoned his Force Chip. His rear-mounted missiles slotted into place on his shoulders; a battery of mini-munitions flipped into place. He trained his twin-barrelled blaster on Starscream… but the jet made no move to attack.

“Ludicrous, isn’t it?” he continued shrilly. “I, the great and powerful Starscream, am to have the resident Autobot _runt_ as my personal nemesis! At first I thought it a mistake, a glitch in my processor. But as I reviewed my military history, I realised it was true.” He stabbed an angry finger at Scattorshot. “On the last two occasions I sought to elevate my station, _you_ foiled me!”

Scattorshot had never thought about it that way – but it was true. He’d stopped Starscream obtaining the Blue Planet Key on Earth, during the fight with Soundwave. Weeks later, deep in the Underbase, he’d spoiled his god-making once again.

“My time in space helped me better understand our relationship,” Starscream said. He was pacing back and forth. “One of the keys to eliminating a race, I learned, was to first study its religion. Acquaint yourself with their particular version of the End Times and you’ll rarely face opposition – most indigenous species just _lay down and die_ when faced with Armageddon.”

A hover platform, remotely summoned, floated down behind Starscream.

“I’ve found that every world has its own version of the ‘David and Goliath’ story,” the would-be emperor said conversationally. “I’m sure you know it: little guy with no hope takes down superior foe; unwashed masses celebrate. In this dance of ours, Scattorshot, you’re David and I’m Goliath. You’re also 2-0 up on me. You’ll therefore understand, I’m sure, I can’t let you complete the hat-trick.”

Atop the platform was a long black box. It was wider at the top than the bottom; tapered like the coffins used by humans. Cybertronian sigils and scrawl covered its every surface; powerful hydraulic bolts and locks kept it sealed shut.

“Goliath’s problem… his and every other giant-archetype in religious fable… was his faith in his own abilities,” Starscream sneered. “Had he admitted he was outclassed by the little dweeb, or brought along some help – frell, if he’d been clever enough to wear a _blasted helmet_ – he’d have squashed David flat and ruled the world. Alas, it was not to be. Goliath and his kin always fell. Until today.”

The box rumbled and clattered. Scattorshot’s radiation sensors red-lined as eldritch energy flooded the atmosphere. With a groan of tortured metal, the locks broke. The bolts rocketed out like gunshots; the lid of the casket swung open.

“I have no intention of falling like the giants of legend,” Starscream finished. “And while some might accuse me of using a tiger to kill a mouse, I’ve not built an empire by taking unnecessary chances. I’d hoped to convert the Terrorcons to my cause but they’re proving to be a problem. And genocide, in my experience, is always the neatest solution to one’s problems.” He leered. “In this case, genocide will commence with a very specific target… _you_.”

It was as if he’d summoned an evil spirit. Without firing a single retro-rocket, a corpse-like Transformer _floated out of the coffin_ and into the air. Scattorshot watched, frozen, as the creature’s red optics fixed on him. Its expression was odd… a creepy mix of disinterest and callousness. It seemed to not notice anything but Scattorshot and yet, at the same time, was looking right through him, at his Spark.

“Dreadwing,” Starscream ordered, “kill this one, and then everything else.”

“Ah,” the ghoul sighed. “Gladly.”


	3. Chapter 3

With a grunt of exertion, Snarl hauled himself up atop the science centre. His keen ears picked up a familiar noise; Insecticon, in his beast mode, was scuttling away. Snarl did not bother to chase him – there would be time enough for that later.

He did, however, hear voices on the opposite side of the geodesic dome. Snarl transformed and trained his long-barrelled missile launcher on the sound…

“Well, if dat don’t beat all! Dey even let _dogs_ inta dis party!”

… and relaxed. “If vermin such as yourself receive invitations, Armourhide,” he sniffed, disgusted by the commando’s malodorous stench, “then true warriors will _always_ be granted leave to join the glory of the battle.”

Armourhide was followed closely by Rodimus, Downshift, Jazz… and Koji. The boy shot him a foul look. Snarl noticed he had been abused – there were scars on the exposed areas of his scalp. Perhaps he, like his parents, had been a prisoner?

 _The parents!_ The male and female, their distress obvious, were sealed inside an amber cube. Snarl bounded over but could neither pierce nor open the prison.

A figure loomed over him, blotting out the sunlight. “You’ll need this,” it said.

Snarl heard weapons being cocked – looking up, he saw Sky Shadow reaching down to him. The Transmetal had, in his hand, a small orange key. “It’s all right,” the former neutralist said soothingly. “There’s no trick to it.”

Cautiously, Snarl took the key from the Terrorcon. Koji was there in a second. “Don’t _you_ touch them,” he raged, snatching the device from the wolf’s paw. Taken aback by the boy’s ferocity, Snarl moved aside.

Sheer disbelief flooded the faces of the older humans; as soon as they were released, they swept the boy up into their arms and held him close. The gesture seemed to communicate affection.

“I mean no harm,” Sky Shadow continued. “Nor did I ever.”

Rodimus frowned. “His forehead’s not glowing.”

“Nope,” Jazz agreed. “Ain’t no voodoo goin’ on.”

“I trust him,” Downshift said resolutely.

“Aw, fer bootin’ up cold,” Armourhide moaned.

Rodimus and Jazz lowered their weapons, as did Snarl. He could scent no duplicity from the Terrorcon; his hackles did not rise. Armourhide looked imploringly at them but, eventually, slung his rifle over his shoulder.

The Terrorcon gazed sadly at his Transmetal body. “All of this was supposed to be an epiphany,” he whispered bitterly. “An unlocking of the door between the living and the dead. Predaking urged us to free our inner beasts from our mechanical cages. Yet I have been enslaved by this flesh, my intellect corrupted by its biological urgings.”

Downshift put a hand, gently, on the larger mech’s forearm. “The device,” he said softly. “I need to shut it down.”

“Of course,” Sky Shadow replied, as if waking from a trance. “Over there.”

The device was a large, tapered tube – wider at the bottom than at the top – boasting all manner of wires, cables and hoses. A clear window, in its centre, displayed Armourhide’s original right arm, which was floating in an amber fluid. Crimson energy vomited from a silver broadcasting dish and into Global Space Bridge.

The wolf looked at the severed arm. “I have long suspected, vermin, that you would have a hand in the apocalypse,” he sneered.

“Me too,” Armourhide said weakly. “But who’da thought it’d be so slaggin’ literal?”

Downshift and Sky Shadow fussed over the machine. They pulled on cables and tried to bodily shove the broadcasting dish in another direction. None of it had any effect; the red light continued to gush in all directions.

“Okay,” Downshift said at last. “The only way to stop this thing is to blow it up. Bad news: we do that, and the energies inside Armourhide’s arm’ll just _explode_ out and perpetuate the problem. And, there’s nothing I can do to reverse this.”

“We’re stuck like dis?” Armourhide winced. “Da whole freakin’ planet?”

“Out of time,” Downshift nodded, “in more ways than one.”

\-----

“Be at peace, Silverstreak. Your time has yet to come.”

The gunner opened his optics. He wasn’t falling anymore; he was _standing_ on solid ground. Glee gripped his Spark – then he saw the carnage around him… destruction rivalling that in Nova Cronum… and recovered himself. Vector Prime stood before him - at least, he _thought_ it was Vector Prime. Sections of his body that had once been silver now shone a brilliant gold, while his limbs and helm were a deep black, not unlike the void of space.

“What’s with the repaint” he asked.

The ancient mech lurched forward, groaning. Silverstreak caught him – returning the favour – and lowered him gently to the ground. Vector Prime moaned. “I should no longer be surprised by the foolishness of our race,” he gasped, “and yet, time and again, I am amazed. How weary I grow of deceptions, of blind fury. Time-traveller as I am, I have disputed the concept of destiny. Yet there is something in this moment suggesting, to me, an overall plan – one invisible to even he who has seen the Omega Point.”

Silverstreak arched an optic ridge. “Jiggawha?”

Vector Prime smiled sadly. “How I appear now, my friend, is how I looked when first I was forged – and how I remained until the great exodus. When Primus cast us out, it imbued within me control over space and time; my frame changed because of that power… it filled with the light of chronal energy.

“This… bubble… in the fabric of time is as dangerous as the Unicron singularity. Right now it is but an infant terror but, left alone, it will just as surely consume all that we know and hold dear. Especially with the remains of the Chaos Bringer, and the body of Primus itself, inbound. Ten years ago, I lacked the strength to close the Unicron singularity myself. This day, with Primus corrupted, desperate action was my only choice… and only the nemesis shall benefit.”

“You’re saying you’ve lost your powers,” Silverstreak breathed. “What can I…”

Golden light flared as a disc appeared before Vector Prime – the Master Key of Cybertron. “Go,” the ancient mech thundered, thrusting the Key into Silverstreak’s hands. “Take this, and live your life. Let my choice, this day, be not in vain. Go forth, Silverstreak, and _seek peace_.”

The sound of battle reached his audio sensors. In the distance, Silverstreak could see old friends… Arcee, Checkpoint, Nightbeat… in need of help. He shoved the Key into subspace and transformed, accelerating toward his comrades.

By the time he checked his rear scanners, Vector Prime had gone.

\-----

Misha held Koji close, speechless for tears. Kicker had his arms around them both, his face a mask of pained relief. “You did good, son,” he whispered. “You did good.”

“No,” the boy sobbed, overwhelmed. “I didn’t.”

Rodimus turned away, giving his old friends some privacy. Koji had made many mistakes, yes, and almost gotten himself – and others – killed. But he was so young, so unprepared for the Transformers, that he could be forgiven his mistakes.

Jazz was glued to the sight. “Let it go for now,” Rodimus advised.

The spy’s features twisted. “I should,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “But I just _can’t_ , you dig? They’re like a family t’ me too, Roddy… an’ without ‘em I feel empty inside. Like my Spark’s already gone out, but my chassis’ still online.”

Rodimus nodded. “If we survive, maybe you can see to fixing that.”

Koji screamed. With speed honed in a thousand battles, Jazz and Rodimus drew their weapons and aimed at the source of the terror. But with speed a thousand times greater, Bludgeon – the hover tank Terrorcon – blasted the guns from their hands.

The _metallikato_ master transformed faster than the optic could track. A whirlwind of hands, elbows, knees and feet was as debilitating as it was rapid. Their chassis crunched and bodywork buckled under Bludgeon’s lethal assault. Jazz tried to stop him approaching the humans, only to receive a thunderous round-house kick to the back of the head. Doubled over, his vision full of static, Rodimus fell. There was a crash beside him, signifying Jazz’s defeat. Vaguely, the cavalier heard Armourhide and the others stir to action. He had a sickening premonition their would be too late.

Bludgeon filled his hand with two bony blades. “Traitors die,” he hissed, “as do fools.” His arm became a blur of motion and, when it stopped, the blades were gone.

Someone gurgled. Downshift cried out – one of the blades had gone right through Sky Shadow’s head. The second was buried, at a sickening angle, in Armourhide’s chest. The commando was spitting up sump-fulls of thick oil, trying to stay on his feet.

“Unlike some religions,” Bludgeon continued, “mine does not suffer the children.”

He turned, fixing his depraved gaze on Kicker, Misha and Koji. Another two blades materialised in his hand. The humans screamed. Rodimus flinched, expecting to hear the horrifying sound of bone piercing flesh. Instead, he heard a howl of anguish.

“Snarl!”

Koji’s scream was more painful than any wound. Ignorant of his own safety, the boy had run over to the white wolf’s jerking carcass. Snarl had blocked the attack and paid the ultimate price – the bones jutted from his chest and pelvic region, giving rise to geysers of oil and Energon. The human child was covered in life fluids; they mixed with his tears as he tried to cradle the giant beast of Animatros.

“A surplus in heroism,” Bludgeon sneered, “and a deficit in smarts.” His shoulder cannon locked into place. He wrapped ivory fingers around the long tube and levelled it at the dying Snarl, the groggy Jazz and the panicked humans.

“Gangway, bonehead,” yelled a familiar voice. “Walkin’ nuke, comin’ through!”

Bludgeon was distracted for but a moment – and that was all it took. Armourhide, his chassis steely grey, rammed his killer. Acrid smoke billowed from beneath his chest plate. Rodimus’ face sank. Bludgeon had not only pieced the commando’s pump – he’d shattered the protective casing around his bombs.

“Face it, kid,” Armourhide slurred, catching his expression, “dis is da best endin’ I could’a hoped for, after all I did. Try ta remember somethin’ nice about me, okay?”

He turned to Bludgeon. “We gotta deficit o’ smarts?” he coughed. “You didn’t think _dis_ one through too well, ya marrow-stealing turkey! Bombs away!”

With a final burst of strength, Armourhide pushed himself and Bludgeon over the edge of the science centre. Rodimus watched the Terrorcon’s face – it was utterly calm. Armourhide whooped like a drunken berserker all the way down. The last thing Rodimus heard, before Armourhide’s payload detonated, sounded like a laugh.

The explosion rocked the geodesic dome to its foundations. Rodimus grabbed for Snarl, Kicker and Misha; Jazz scooped Koji up before the boy could skid over the edge. The building lurched at a sickening angle but, thankfully, did not collapse.

“Everyone okay?” Rodimus called urgently.

Jazz didn’t answer. Koji was clinging desperately to the Bugatti, wailing and sobbing hysterically. “Shh, little man, it’s okay,” the mech cooed. “I’m here; you’re safe.”

Kicker and Misha were checking on Snarl; Downshift lurched toward them, dragging Sky Shadow's limp form. A cloud of smoke billowed behind him – the engineer had slagged the time-shift machine with his shoulder missiles.

“Not good,” the engineer rasped, “at _all_.”

\-----

The longer one existed, the lonelier he became.

It was a truth Vector Prime had, for a long time, accepted. Never before had it felt so acutely painful, however. As he rose over the battlefield… above the warring factions of the race he had pioneered… the ancient Cybertronian felt truly isolated.

For time immeasurable, since the exile, he had been alone… save for Safeguard. Together they had traversed the gulfs of the multiverse, peering in on civilisations both different to, and alike, their own. Now, their paths had diverged.

Mere decades ago, Vector Prime had returned to the planet of his birth to fulfil his duty; the destruction of the Chaos Bringer. To his surprise, he also formed ties and found kinships with his descendents. Those relations had been strained – in part because of his own reticence – but not a day passed where he did not think of Tow-line.

Primus had charged him with guardianship of time and space. Yet as he rose to the very furthest reach of the time-shift rupture… the shimmering, blinding white line that separated the Earth from the rest of the universe… Vector Prime refused to die a lonely death for his god-given function.

He would die, instead, for his _friends_.

As Silverstreak had guessed, his powers were gone. He did not, however, require power to end the abomination; all he needed were the unique properties of his own design.

On Speedia, years before, Blur had gathered chronal energy in a decelerator laser and redirected it; the process here was the same. Vector Prime would use his own body to absorb, slow down and release the bastardised flow of time around Earth.

“May all, someday, be one,” he whispered.

He reached out tentatively. The white light seemed to bite his ebony fingertips; it was as if his neural net was being set on fire. Gritting his dental plates, Vector Prime plunged his arm into the corrupted time-stream. Crying in agony, he nonetheless managed to twist his body and drive his other arm into the alabaster chronal “wall”.

Black streaks formed. Stars winked through gaps in the white expanse; the pre-dawn sky became visible. And all the while, rivulets of steely grey trickled through Vector Prime’s armour. Every second of time regained stole a year of his existence.

Sensation left his body. Static crawled across his vision. Numbly, he realised his hands had turned to dust… followed by his arms, shoulders and torso. Blissfully disconnected from his cruel disintegration, Vector Prime’s last conscious thought was happy realisation: the sun was rising, just as it should, over planet Earth and it was _beautiful_ … like a newborn Spark.

\-----

The saccharine odour was abhorrent but oh, so worth it. No longer did Grimlock regret his decision to let the newborn, Bolis, come along on the mission rather than locking up the sorry excuse for a would-be ‘con.

“Told ya,” Bolis enthused. “Modern acid _always_ beats ancient metal!”

One hundred mangled Flyers lay behind them. Fifty more of the creepy little weirdos lay ahead and, beyond, two familiar faces. Buzzsaw took to the air immediately, desperate to avoid the invading Autobots. Reptilion, seated by the Omega Lock’s master control, did not so much as flinch – contemptuous as ever.

“Thizzz not what Buzzsaw needzzz,” the helicopter sighed, exasperated. “Thought big ugly ladybot wazzz lazzzt problem we going to have on this trip! Buzzsaw juzzzt want to go home. Izzz that too much for Buzzsaw to azzzk?”

A dozen shots rang out, each one clipping Buzzsaw’s rotors. The fool seemed to hang in mid-air just long enough to gulp loudly. Then he fell head-first into a bank of computers, twitched spasmodically and was silent.

Swoop and the others could handle the Flyers – Grimlock wanted Reptilion. He tromped, squished and tore his way through the throng, eking his way toward his prey. He transformed as he approached the broad observation window; in the distance, there was a flash of light as Earth appeared. _Huh,_ he thought, _owe Silverstreak apology._

He readied his axe, but never had the chance to use it. Millions of volts of electricity unexpectedly ripped through his circuitry. Anguished, Grimlock staggered – right into the bug-like clutches of a Flyer. This one was a yellow-type but its armour was more brilliant; almost golden.

“Gotcha,” it whooped, jolting the Dinobot’s head with electro-paddle hands. Grimlock bellowed in pain. “Ooh, a _screamer_ ,” the little mech continued. “I like that. How fitting that Kremzeek’s first victim here, on the home world, is the same sort of big-framed idiot he’s been killing for vorns!”

The Dinobot urged his systems to respond, to fight back, but they had been scrambled by Kremzeek’s attack. He’d been scrambled. Only once before had he been this helpless… as he sank into that fetid tar pool, back on prehistoric Earth… and the memory stirred more useless rage within his Spark. “Kill… you…” he grunted.

“Hardly,” Kremzeek cackled. “Roast lizard, coming up!”

The observation window shattered. Grimlock could swear he saw _two_ Omega Supremes barrelling through the ruined portal – one black and gold, the other blue and silver. Then he saw Optimus Prime and knew that, once again, his skid plate had been saved by the boss. _How embarrassment,_ he grumbled internally.

Kremzeek yelped as he was enveloped by liquid nitrogen. Optimus poured it on until the tiny twerp was good and frozen. Then, with uncharacteristic sadism, the Autobot leader kicked the helpless Flyer into a wall.

“Long story,” Optimus said, offering a hand to Grimlock. “The short version is, I was played for a sucker for far too many years.”

“Told you,” Grimlock huffed, accepting the help, “soft side be end of you one day.”

The timely arrival of Optimus’ crew well and truly turned the tide. Not only did the extra numbers help – the Omegas and Bulkhead were experts in Flyer demolition – but the mere sight of the Matrix Bearer, returned after so long in space, spurred the Autobots to new levels of heroism.

 _He am best,_ Grimlock acknowledged. _Which suck, quite frankly._

Finally, Reptilion noticed the battle. Needle-like teeth glinting, the Transmetal lizard spread his claws and filled the room raw Energon. Every mech in the room dropped instantly. Powerful or puny, warrior or weakling, no Transformer could cope with such radiation. It was their fuel, true, but too much of a “good thing” was lethal.

“My vocabulary, expansive though it may be, sadly lacks the terminology to adequately express my pleasure at having an hypothesis confirmed,” Reptilion gushed. “It is as I once said to Bludgeon; many of the tenements upon which his religion is founded have direct correlations in the most basic of scientific textbooks. Where as he speaks of controlling the liquid of life, I am content to manipulate Energon – my success informed by remote studies of the human known, moronically, as ‘Kicker’ – and, thus, be able to cripple any and all Transformers I encounter!”

“Not all,” growled a small voice.

Peering through pain-ravaged optics, Grimlock saw Carnivac rise. Catilla and Garboil were already in their beast modes, hissing and squawking dangerously. Knockdown, Skydive and Terrorsaur – the miniature dinosaurs – had murder in their eyes.

_“They’re not technorganic,” the Mini-con leaders had explained. “Their hides are a simulation of organic flesh – the better to allow them to blend into hostile territory. They have super-strong superstructures and their faux-organic hides will ward off the worst of the Energon burn.”_

It hurt to do so, but Grimlock laughed.

Reptilion, unsurprisingly, saw no humour in the situation. “Inconceivable,” he spluttered. “I accounted for all variables… I took into consideration every permutation of the designated ‘x’ factors one encounters in experimentation… I…”

“You forgot the law of the jungle,” Carnivac rumbled, “Survival of the fittest. A designation that doesn’t include you… _meat_.”

The scientist screamed. He had nowhere to run – the bestial Mini-cons covered the room in a handful of savage seconds and brought him down. Grimlock tried not to relish the messy sounds that accompanied the devouring of Reptilion. Discovering he felt only glee, he gave up and enjoyed the grisly concerto.

Bulkhead’s reaction was, on the whole, more useful. The last of the Wreckers fired his leg-mounted boosters and sprang across the room. Taking up Reptilion’s former seat, he quickly assessed the archaic controls. Crossing two fingers of his left hand, he hit a large blue button and wrenched a joystick to the right. Primus’ cannons died down and the whirling star field outside settled into more familiar, static dots of light.

“Close call,” Bulkhead said. According to the instrumentation, Cybertron had come to a stop on the Earth-side of the Martian asteroid belt. “We’ve had enough of those, lately.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Optimus breathed. “Rustle up whatever space-ready craft you can find, Grimlock. I’m initiating battle protocol, and taking a unit to Earth.”

“Someone else had the same idea,” Red Alert said as he joined them. “Another message came through from the Mini-cons; apparently, an unidentified small craft just blasted out of their southern polar region, bound for Fortress Maximus.”

Grimlock furrowed his brow. “Who it be?”

\-----

Sweet relief was imminent.

Wheeljack gazed adoringly at the long-barrelled sniper rifle he’d… inherited. Swindle, strangely, had dropped it and ran – the serial killer hardly cared. Thanks to Starscream, his Energon batons no longer worked. An up-close-and-personal kill was now off the cards… but this might be even better. With a rifle, you had more options.

Ten years without a kill. A decade to be addressed. With whom should he start?

Targets, Wheeljack knew, had a way of presenting themselves – this was no exception. It seemed the Autobots hadn’t been as thorough as they’d thought – one human remained in the combat zone. A little girl, clutching some kind of stuffed animal, was walking right through the middle of a fire fight. He tutted disapprovingly.

Arcee – leaking fuel pump that she was – hurtled across to the child. The pink and black motorcycle transformed by the crying wretch and tried to coax her to safety.

It was almost a seduction, Wheeljack thought. The femme had presented her entire profile to him… slender, fast and vulnerable. She _wanted_ to be his victim; why else would she stretch herself out for him? He raised Swindle’s rifle to his left optic. He swept the scope up and down Arcee’s well-tooled chassis, lingering on her chest plate and pelvic joint. There was a pleasant ringing in his audio sensors.

Then his head exploded.

Wheeljack would never know who killed him. Nor would the three Autobots gaping at one another, shocked, across his funeral pyre. As the twisted killer’s decapitated frame wobbled, jerked and slumped to the ground, Nightbeat, Silverstreak and Checkpoint lowered their weapons.

“Did you…” Nightbeat began.

“I thought you…” Checkpoint countered.

“Damn,” Silverstreak muttered.

Each of them had motive. Silverstreak’s complicity in Wheeljack’s madness… Checkpoint’s near-assassination on Gigalonia… Nightbeat’s near-ruin, and failed quest to understand the Decepticon ideal.

None of them would have blamed the other for putting ethics aside and taking the moment – taking the _shot_ – that would forever exorcise personal demons.

None would have blamed the other… but each blamed himself.

\-----

He was going to die. And the blame for that rested solely on his _frelling enhanced frelling senses!!!_

Scattorshot braked hard and turned to the right, narrowly avoiding another deadly barrage. Dreadwing was, frustratingly, playing cat-and-mouse with him. The vicious ghoul could have finished him off at any time but chose the chase instead. It fit with what little Scattorshot knew about his tormentor; back in the day, when Dreadwing had _been alive_ , he liked to make killing an art form.

Panic was one thing. Scattorshot could handle panic. Neurotic as he was, panic was a constant friend – he’d learned to channel it, to have it fuel his engines better than deutronium-laced Energon. Panic plus _distraction_ , now that was a different ball game. And the distractions were everywhere, thanks to his damn senses.

The world before Scattorshot’s optics was alive with information. The jagged green lines of communication channels, radiation fluctuations, the Primus-damned Weather Channel… it was all there, obscuring his view. More than once had Dreadwing seemed to appear from out behind a Venn diagram of Transformer life-signs.

He couldn’t concentrate on the road ahead. He couldn’t focus on taking aim, with his rear scanners, and blowing big holes in the remorseless wraith. And he sure as _frell_ didn’t understand why his sensor net kept blabbering about Spark signatures and the inter-linked processors of the Decepticons’ clone army!

_Waitaminnit!_

Scattorshot ran those last two data tracks again. As was common in a Transformer battle, there were Spark signatures everywhere… _except_ wherever Dreadwing was. The damn spook was, quite literally, a soulless killing machine! Intelligent, obviously, and possessed of the same murderous personality he’d sported in the days before Operation: Volcano, but not life as we know it.

He cross-referenced the clone stuff. There was a kind of “hive mind” thing going on with the Dirge and Skywarp units. Their communications boiled down to about 50 basic commands. They weren’t intelligent life – barely even sentient, in fact, and certainly without individual personalities. Each was programmed with loyalty, self-preservation and a hard-wired imperative to watch the others’ backs. Safety in numbers only meant something, after all, if you had the numbers.

The diminutive Autobot grinned tightly. “Gotcha, you sons of glitches.”

Scattorshot locked his brakes and changed course, turning through 180 degrees and heading into the thick of the fighting. Quickly, he was targeted by a gaggle of Decepti-clones. Perfect. He transformed and pulled two odd-looking weapons from sub-space; an Energon leash and a vacuum gun. Wasting no time, he snared a Dirge unit around the neck and dragged it into Dreadwing’s path.

‘Con hit ‘con with a bang. Dreadwing’s optics – half-lidded until now – irised open. His hands fastened, like magnets, to the struggling drone’s shoulders.

As the Dirge thrashed, Scattorshot’s sensor net started pinging. Radiation was building in Dreadwing’s chest cavity; the power storm building to a maelstrom that brightened the tattoo-like crest on the giant’s helmet. In mere seconds, the Dirge unit was a lifeless husk while Dreadwing seemed… _sated_.

Which wouldn’t do, at all.

Reversing the flow of the vacuum gun, Scattorshot blasted the gawking clones with a typhoon of compressed air. Though a couple of the Skywarp units teleported away, the bulk of the drones brushed up against Dreadwing. Once again, the juggernaut’s optics flared with pleasure and he grabbed hungrily at his supposed allies, draining them one after another.

Scattorshot “heard” an air strike coming in, and dove out of the way. Reinforcements had arrived, and how – it seemed like every clone had converged on the massacre. They pumped round after round of ammunition into Dreadwing; blowing first chunks, and then entire sections, off his body. The wraith remained obsessed with draining every clone within reach. All the while, his life force reading continued to build… 60 per cent of normal… 70… 80…

Starscream arrived and tried to remedy the impromptu civil war by _shrieking_ orders. Scattorshot transformed called on his Force Chip, bringing his full arsenal to bear. He primed every mortar, shell and missile he had aboard, zeroing them all in on Dreadwing’s chest plate. Then he waited for the display across his near-sighted optics to read: “life force 100 per cent of normal.”

“Happy trails, gruesome,” he whooped.

A tempest of explosive force detonated against Dreadwing. The resulting shockwave knocked Scattorshot onto his side, hurled Starscream into yet another building and incinerated all but two members of the clone army. Dreadwing flew apart in a shower of metal shavings and melting bolts.

Scattorshot’s plan had worked perfectly. He’d brought the ghost back to life – rejuvenated his Spark energy – just long enough to kill him. And he’d done it by feeding the life forces of his artificial enemies to the hungry wraith. The serpent had eaten its own tail, leaving the Autobots with two less problems.

He transformed. Scattorshot’s entire chassis hurt, and most of his paint had been stripped by the heat. Even so, he reached for his blaster because he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, what came next.

“You demented little freak,” Starscream wailed. The crown was gone and, with it, the illusion of regal bearing. “I’m going to barbecue your optics, slowly, over your own smoking cranial case!” His arm cannons were already powering up. “I’m going to reach down past your synthesiser, grab your air filters and pull them out through your olfactory sensors! I’ll…”

He pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. Starscream’s fingers jerked, again and again, producing nothing more than a pitiful _click_.

“What is going on?” he shrieked.

A small black object bounced off his helm. It fell in the space between them; Scattorshot recognised it as a remote control. There was a single red button set in its centre. It meant nothing to him but – judging by the look on his face plate – it held a lot of significance for Starscream.

“You’re despicable,” the aerial warrior grimaced.

Swindle came into view and shrugged his yellow shoulders. “Which, I’m sure you’ll concede, is the point.”

“One question,” Starscream glowered, rounding on the smaller mech. “Why?”

“Because I asked him to,” announced an all-too familiar voice. “And, unlike some of my other warriors, Swindle never fails me.”

Starscream all but melted into a puddle of slag, right there on the spot. Scattorshot couldn’t blame him. What little strength remained in his legs ebbed away; his fuel pump raced and his processor swam. None of the things he had seen in this universe… neither wonder nor terror… could have prepared him for the face plate, the chassis, the malevolent _presence_ standing in front of him, right now.

The mech stood twice Starscream’s height, and seemed to be composed mainly of jagged edges. Its black feet were broad, flat and highlighted with red; while its silver-and-black legs were thick and, in places, disc-shaped. Its arms, torso, chest and neck were all burnished in the same silver-and-black metal; were it not for splashes of red across the chassis, you’d be forgiven for thinking its Spark had been extinguished.

A Decepticon insignia adorned its chest plate, while two skeletal wings thrust up from its shoulders and hung down its back. Beneath two large, razor-sharp obsidian horns was a purple face plate, horrifying in its familiarity. Those features, those blood-red optics, had haunted a thousand of Scattorshot’s nightmares.

“Muh… Muh… Muh…’ Starscream stammered.

“Come now, Starscream,” Megatron thundered, breaking into a devil’s grin. “Is that any way to greet your _leader_?”


	4. Chapter 4

“It wasn’t supposed to end like this,” Sideways growled.

“Funny,” Junko said lightly. “I don’t remember giving you a choice in the matter.”

She watched the TV screen on the left-hand side of her console. Like every other news broadcast in the past three hours, the network had handed the story to its most senior anchor. Vaguely, Junko recalled her father talking about the assassination of an American president; how that era’s most respected journalist had broken down and wept on-camera. She supposed this was much the same thing – if you were going to forever shatter the public’s innocence, best it be done by a trusted voice.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the grey-haired anchor intoned. “Today, the human race has been presented with incontrovertible proof that we are not alone in the universe.”

It was a cliché, but one that had worked in eight countries so far. As the international date-line shifted, every human being on Earth was learning about their new world. A world _transformed_ , where things were not as they seemed.

“No less an authority than the President of the United States of America,” the journalist continued, “has confirmed the presence of alien life on Earth. More amazingly, these interstellar beings have been hiding in plain sight for many years. They are among us.”

Sideways, who was behind her, groaned. “Geez, over-dramatise much?”

“Shh,” Junko hissed. “Here comes my favourite part.”

“We now cross to Agent Franklin Stanton, an expert on non-biological extraterrestrials from the multi-national research group known as Sector Seven.”

Franklin’s handsome features filled the screen. He was trying to be sombre but Junko detected a hint of a smile in his features. After so many years of ridicule, Franklin got to go down in history as the man who revealed the existence of the Transformers to the world. It was one of the many small ways Junko sought to make amends.

“If I wasn’t responsible for all of this,” Sideways muttered, “I wouldn’t believe it could be done.” He laughed. “When I build a propaganda machine, I do it _right_!”

Junko couldn’t argue with that. Since the Industrial Revolution, Sideways and his human accomplices had blinded the human race to the Transformers. Centuries of disinformation, from knowledgeable people in the highest seats of power, meant even something as drastic as the downtown incident could be written off as a “meteor strike”.

But that also meant the _reverse_ was true. Those same moles, ordered to speak the truth, were instantly believed. An illusion created painstakingly across decades was ripped away, like a cobweb, in the space of hours thanks to 21st century communications.

It was just as Junko wanted. The best way to safe-guard humanity… and to offset mass panic… was to give it the information it needed to defend itself.

The “live cross” was actually pre-recorded. Franklin had done one take in the agency’s own studio, responding to questions that were on-passed to the media. The networks just dropped in footage of their own people, and they had their interview. Not a single journalist had questioned the odd set-up; with the sky blotted out, even the most jaded hack was willing to cut the authorities _some_ slack.

Junko tuned Franklin out. She knew the routine off by heart. He would go on to explain the difference between an Autobot and a Terrorcon: how one faction was essentially benevolent but still dangerous, the other murderous. Though she remained to be convinced of the Autobots’ altruism, Junko would give them the benefit of the doubt… for _now_. If they crossed her, they’d be wrecked faster than her last car.

They were the source of the name, after all: “Sector Seven” was a reference to the defeat of Flame Convoy. On that day, seven beings from different worlds – Junko, Franklin, Ultra Magnus, Snarl, Sideways, Repugnus and Apelinq – had come together for a common purpose. No other name better suited the long-anonymous agency, she felt.

That heinous battle, the white skies that had, thankfully, returned to normal… all of it would be properly attributed by the end of Franklin’s interview. Blame would fall on the deserving. Junko had opted not to kill the Transformers, though she so desperately wanted to; that did not mean she couldn’t render them vulnerable by removing their disguises.

Junko shut off the screen. She stretched her arms wide… and the mechanised exo-suit stretched with her. The juggernaut moved at the speed of thought, tied to her brain thanks to a snug-fitting helmet and a tangle of wires. Eleven more battle suits shifted nervously behind her, with Sideways at the flanking position.

She gave the order and her team stepped out of the semi-trailer and onto the battlefield. Somewhere up ahead, the Autobots and Terrorcons were having a massive throw-down… but not for much longer.

\-----

“Is this… really… the best you… can do?” Ultra Magnus grunted.

Predaking, predictably, tightened his grip – just as Magnus had hoped. He pushed backward against the “palm” of the zealot’s claw mode. Twin pressures crushed his jet pack’s fuel tanks; Magnus quickly ignited his afterburners and set his enemy on fire.

Howling, outsmarted once again, Predaking released his prisoner. Autobot and Terrorcon fell into the bay, throwing up geysers of water and a huge cloud of steam. Rendered flightless, Magnus kicked his long legs madly and made for the surface.

He’d barely thrust his head out of the water when Predaking flashed past. His wings and robot-mode arms had become fins that scythed through the water, turning him into an ugly but effective hydrofoil.

“Do you understand now, Autobot?” Predaking hissed. “There is no idea of yours I cannot counter – no situation for which I cannot adapt! I am the embodiment of life itself; I always find a way to survive, to thrive and to _conquer_! More, I am the final manifestation of Cybertronian life… a being capable of transforming relative to his environment, all the better to _dominate_!”

Predaking bore down on him, intending to use his fins as cutting blades. At the last possible second, Magnus ducked beneath the ocean and thrust his arm up. His palm, angled like a knife, pierced technorganic flesh and spilled a disgusting mess of wiring, oil and biological effluent into the bay.

He swam for the shoreline. Predaking made it there first; already, the long rupture down his torso was beginning to heal. For a moment, the zealot stood tall in his robot mode, glaring contemptuously at the Autobot. Then he dropped onto four legs and grew ears, blood-red tusks and a long trunk.

“Again with the mammoths,” Magnus sighed. “What is it with delusional beings and pachyderms, anyway?”

“They never forget a grudge,” Predaking quipped.

Tired, his chassis aching, Magnus somehow managed to avoid being gored. He was not so nimble, however, as to dodge the massive trunk. On its first pass, it clipped his legs out from under him and sent him crashing to the bitumen. It snaked around his midsection and thumped him against a building. The Earthforce commander cried out as he went through the fragile structure, landing in a heap amidst an abandoned office. Chairs and tables flew apart like kindling as the massive trunk snuffled and searched for him. Finally it came down, hammer-like, toward his head.

Magnus rolled aside, punched out a swathe of windows and brought Blue Bolts around. Its barrels ran red-hot as he poured a hail of Teflon-coated bullets into Predaking’s exposed elephant neck. The Terrorcon gagged and reared back on his hind legs. Leaping from his perch, Magnus transformed in mid-air and hit the ground running, slamming into his foe with the full force of his car carrier mode.

Knocked off-balance, Predaking bounced, tumbled… and transformed once more. His body elongated and his limbs grew straighter as he took on a griffin-like appearance. The new beast keened loudly; a sonic assault that threw Magnus off his wheels and broke windows for a half-mile around them. He kept up the ear-slitting cacophony until Magnus came to rest on his roof.

“You’ve been called the ultimate innovator,” Predaking rasped, “the master of improvisation.” The Transmetal took a deep, ragged breath. His shoulders were stooped. “Tell me, Ultra Magnus: how do you improvise against one whose transformations are unlimited? How do you innovate when you foe can deflect any paltry scheme, any insignificant tactic, with bestial fury? How do you outsmart a chimera?”

Magnus transformed, spat out a mouthful of oil and glared through his scarred optic. “You’re no chimera,” he snapped. “You’re just another punk with an identity crisis.”

“I am far from conflicted, heathen,” the mad-mech ranted, shifting forms again. “Yes.” Once more he was a dragon, but of a different configuration; this mode had but one head and fewer weapons. It appeared to be, for want of a better term, more energy-efficient.

Magnus cocked his head to one side, pondering the strange form. An idea tickled the back of his processor. “More dragons?” he sighed. “Please. If you want to convince me you’re not a repackaged Flame Convoy, you’ll have to be more inventive than that.”

Predaking chuckled maliciously. “It occurs to me the old fool may have had the right idea about _some_ things.”

Green light twinkled in front of the zealot. With a flash, the green Planet Key appeared in front of him. At the same time, a section of the beast’s chest rippled and split, creating a slot for the ancient artefact.

Magnus wasted no time in summoning his own power-boosting disc; the blue Planet Key. Gripping it by its flat protrusion, he whipped his arm across his body and threw the device like a shuriken. Blue Key slammed into Green Key, sending them both away from Predaking and into a pile of rubble. Thinking back to the stories of Animatros – and the Energon field created by the jade object – Magnus used his rifle to melt the debris, encasing the Green Key in molten rock.

“Oh,” Predaking rumbled, “ _so_ unwise.”

The difference between dragon modes was immediately obvious; this new shape was much faster. Four golden blades sprang from its underside, and two from the tops of its wings; stubby legs ended in three-clawed talons. Predaking whipped around Magnus like a banshee, cutting and rending with every pass. The Autobot did his best to block the razor-blade storm, but succeeded only having his gauntlets and tyres sliced to ribbons. When the dragon next passed, he grabbed hold of its feet and went along for the ride.

“What in blazes are you doing?” Predaking demanded.

“What’s the matter, your majesty? _Tired_?”

Predaking turned sharply, trying to snap Magnus’ body like a whip. It was the worst thing he could have done – given sudden leverage, the Autobot wrenched the dragon about and into skyscraper. Glass shattered around them as they plunged through the massive building and came out the other side. Magnus held on grimly, forcing his opponent through another tower, a crane and into the face of a clock.

Finally, the beast lost his battle with gravity. Once again they plunged; this time into unyielding concrete. Magnus winced as struts in his back and right hip bent awkwardly. It hurt to even lie still. Yet he forced himself to stand upright. Everything depended on him being strong for a few moments more. Strong and, above all else, _right_.

Gratifyingly, Predaking was hurt as well. Unhappily, his injuries were sealing with the usual technorganic speed. That said, the red-and-orange monstrosity appeared to have trouble righting himself. His breathing was even more laboured. “You will… rue the day… you crossed paths with… me,” he gasped. “Yes.”

“Give it… your best shot… freak,” Magnus panted, hoping he sounded more dangerous than he looked. “I’m not… going anywhere.”

“Oh yes…you are,” Predaking corrected, a feral gleam in his eyes. “Straight to… your precious Allspark! Prepare yourself… now… for my… _ultimate_ mode!”

The Transmetal sprang into the air and curled himself up into a ball. His arms straightened by his sides; his legs all but vanished into the mass of his torso. His wings shortened and thickened, his twin spears jutting uselessly from their tips. Flaps sprouted from the sides of his head and his face elongated into a snout with large, piggish nostrils.

Robbed of all but the most limited ability, Predaking gaped in surprise… and chirped like a tiny bat.

Magnus darted forward and snagged the ugly gargoyle by the throat. “I’m sure there’s… religious precedent for… turning into swine,” he breathed.

Predaking thrashed impotently. “I don’t… understand,” he puffed.

Magnus did. Contrary to Predaking’s “religion”, technorganic beings were no stronger than ordinary Transformers. A Transmetal had certain advantages, but they also had organic weaknesses including the need for air, sustenance… and _rest_. Whatever the zealot had done to himself had, somehow, made him more Transmetal than before. His body rested in a state half-way between flesh and metal. His musculature had the durability of titanium steel but it acted, responded and _tired_ like flesh.

In the end, all Magnus had to do was survive. Predaking, show-off that he was, had obligingly tired himself out. His body, seeking instinctively to conserve energy, had conjured up forms with less and less offensive capability and, finally, fewer moving parts. Predaking had ignored his own body’s urgings for too long – the gargoyle mode was but a prelude to stasis lock; a last-ditch attempt to escape from a losing battle.

The beast’s features twisted imploringly. “End it,” he muttered.

“And give your cause a martyr?” Magnus shook his head. “Not a chance. Besides, I’m an Autobot – we don’t execute our prisoners.”

Predaking’s eyes rolled deliriously. “ _And there came a hero who said: ‘Hurt not the Earth, nor the sea, nor the trees, nor the very fabric of time’_ ,” he choked hoarsely. “ _But the hero would not prevail._ ”

“ _Nor_ ,” Magnus added, finished the quote, “ _would he surrender_.” He pulled the beast in close, optic-to-eyeball. “The Covenant holds true, Predaking. I didn’t have to outsmart you, just outlast you. I didn’t beat you – you did that all by yourself.”

\-----

Rodimus eased Snarl onto the pavement. The white wolf was still online, albeit barely. His metallic skin had flushed grey a couple of times, and his optics were dim. The cavalier had offered to use Templar methods to ease his friend’s pain, or to fan his flickering Spark. Each time, he’d been waved weakly away.

Jazz followed them down the side of the geodesic dome, climbing with one hand. Koji was curled in the other arm, his eyes dark and glazed. The boy would likely be asleep from exertion, were it not for all the stimuli his young brain was receiving. Kicker and Misha – happy to be free, furious to learn they’d been nothing but bait for months – clung to the spy’s back and exchanged quiet words.

Downshift came last. He’d insisted on carrying Sky Shadow by himself. The former Terrorcon was in the worst shape of all, caught somewhere between life and death. Bludgeon’s sword still jutted from his head. His technorganic abilities had healed the wound _around_ the blade, meaning it could not be removed without further injury. Nor could it remain there – eventually, the trauma would claim his Spark.

“I don’t know what to do for him,” the engineer muttered.

Rodimus looked around; there was no sign of Armourhide. He hadn’t really expected there would be. The blast was so hot, so intense, both the commando and Bludgeon would have disintegrated. Had he been here, Armourhide would’ve likely made some quip about “going out with a bang”; the thought made Rodimus ill.

“Uh,” Jazz said hesitantly, “what’s wrong with this picture?”

The three-way battle was still going, but its nature had changed dramatically. The only weapons fire came from Autobot guns; Decepticons and Terrorcons clashed with fists and fangs. That did nothing to assuage their frenzy – Battle Ravage and Soundwave were locked in a death grip. Smokescreen was trying to separate them, with extreme prejudice, but Laserbeak kept getting in his way.

Cruel Lock had rallied the Terrorcons in the ruins of a skyscraper. Snow Cat and the Decepticons were pummelling their position with debris and wreckage. Thundercracker had gleefully inserted himself in the middle of their dispute. He and Zapmaster were making short work of their unarmed targets, alternating between wing-sword slashes and vicious torrents of purple laser fire.

Tankor and Obsidian were still recovering from their injuries; Wreckloose had been chased off by Arcee, but only after inflicting significant damage to his former warlords. Lugnutz had joined the pursuit, while Runamuck had stopped to tend to Rumble. The fallen Gigalonian was offline, but alive.

Crumplezone was the oddest sight of all. The massive mech, originally from Speedia, was crouched over a headless, smouldering corpse. He poked at it with a stubby finger as if expecting it to respond. Nightbeat, Checkpoint and – bizarrely enough – Silverstreak had their weapons trained on him.

“What do you suppose happened?” Downshift asked.

“ _I_ happened,” came the answer, from behind them. “And I will _happen_ to you as well, if you do not drop your weapon.”

Millions of years of fear loosened Rodimus’ fingers. His missile launcher fell to the ground with a clatter. Downshift and Jazz drew close to the humans and the injured Transformers, ready to defend them but praying they would not have to engage. Recovering both his senses and his weapon, Rodimus joined them.

Megatron strode past them. In one hand, the glittering silver behemoth held aloft a disgruntled-looking Starscream. From the other, he dropped an embarrassed Scattorshot.

“Ah stopped th’ livin’ dead,” he muttered sheepishly, “an’ the walkin’ brainless, but I ain’t got half as much luck when it comes t’ th’ recently resurrected. Little help?”

Jazz pulled the half-tank to his feet. “When the frell did Big Evil come back?” the spy exploded. “An’ how the frell do we stop him?”

Megatron walked into the middle of the battle. Swindle, the yellow-armoured weapons dealer, followed him. The deposed tyrant spoke to no one. The Decepticons were the first to react to the sight of their long-lost leader. The Terrorcons responded more bitterly; holding no love for the dictator, they clung to their small piece of shelter and howled.

Silverstreak and the other Autobots just stared, their bodies limp. Zapmaster tumbled from his partner’s Powerlinx port. Thundercracker, however, opened his mouth and emitted a primal scream of fury.

Holding his wing-sword high, the ex-Decepticon took to the air and charged his hated enemy – just as he’d done a decade before, the last time they’d seen one another. On that occasion, Megatron had snapped the valiant warrior’s neck. This time, he simply held out a black hand and caught the wing-sword. There was a brief flash of purple lightning as Thundercracker flew backwards and landed, unceremoniously, on his skid plate.

“Behave,” Megatron intoned, “and you may live to see the end of this day.”

Soundwave and Demolishor fell into silent, reverent line behind Megatron. Snow Cat, Tidal Wave and the rest of the “old guard” quickly followed suit. Insecticon appeared from beneath a heap of rubble and joined the procession. Tankor and Obsidian stayed where they were and _glared_.

Nightbeat and the others joined Rodimus’ group. “If anyone’s got ideas, now’s the time to share,” the detective whispered. “We can’t just stand here and let Megatron reform the Decepticon army! Not after all we’ve done in the past 10 years!”

“You wanna tell _him_ that, be my guest,” Smokescreen replied. “But tell me, first, where would want your remains entombed.”

Thundercracker shook furiously. A red haze – his warrior’s spirit – began to form around him. “This is the single worst thing that could possibly happen,” he spat, barely coherent. “He’ll drag us all back into the dark ages… consign our Sparks to the bleak totalitarian shackles of his mad designs… rip out our free will…”

Arcee tried to console him; he brushed her away. She shook her head. “He’s going to pop a circuit at this rate,” she breathed.

“Uh oh,” Scattorshot moaned pointing. “Here comes th’ pitch.”

Megatron had claimed a fallen section of freeway as his podium. “This pathetic excuse for conflict,” he boomed, “is over. I make the following offer – and listen carefully, for it will be made only once,” he warned. “Those who join together now, under my banner, will receive amnesty for any and all past transgressions. Those who choose a life outside my influence will be branded enemies and treated as such… for the remainder of their very short lives.” His eyes flashed. “Choose now.”

Starscream wriggled free of his leader’s grasp and dropped to his knees. “I live to serve you, Lord Megatron,” he wailed plaintively.

The Decepticons bowed their heads. Demolishor and Snow Cat exchanged high-fives. The Terrorcons and their Mini-con allies continued to hang back; Chromia broke ranks and, smirking, joined Megatron's group. Crumplezone kept poking at the corpse. Tankor and Obsidian still hadn’t moved.

“My warlords of Kalis,” Megatron said pleasantly, spreading his arms wide. “I would have thought you to be the _first_ to rededicate yourselves to the Decepticon cause.”

Obsidian shook his head. “I have not spent 10 years choking in the service of an idiot,” he fumed, “just to become slave to another fool. Your poorly-conceived battle plans and insane lust for power loosened our stranglehold on Cybertron, robbing us of tactical supremacy we had held for nine million years! Starscream’s ignorance afforded Tankor and I the freedom to employ our talents to the fullest. Your claustrophobic tyranny and obsessive-compulsive focus will chain us more securely than any Autobot prison!”

Megatron sighed. Atom by atom, a Force Chip spun into life next to him. Unlike the rest of the ancient devices, this Chip was a thing of straight lines and angles. A Decepticon symbol was stamped boldly on its centre. At its touch, a piece of Megatron’s wing broke free and looped, through the air, to his right forearm. It connected with a thunderous _clang_ , throwing a row of spikes up from its top edge. The protruding front of the device telescoped open.

Though Rodimus was a safe distance away, he shuddered. He’d read old data tracks about such a device – a fusion cannon, a horrifying weapon not seen since the first generation of their kind. It drew its unimaginable power from pools of anti-matter.

Tankor had just enough time to whimper before a jet of anti-matter tore through his mid-section. Obsidian blanched; it was the last expression his face plate would ever show. The hovering tactician’s head and upper torso melted under Megatron’s onslaught; his body clattered into a lifeless heap next to the corpse of his life-long partner.

“Terrorcons,” Megatron said, acting as if nothing had happened. “I extend absolution to you, as well. Once, you all served me. Your contributions were fair to middling, but still an overall part of my success. I welcome you back to the fold.”

Cruel Lock transformed to robot mode. “We will not regress,” he growled. “We will not devolve, nor cast off our purity to live under the yoke of enslavement. The True Path leads _away_ from small-minded despots like you, Megatron, toward glory, fulfilment and rapture! May you burn forever in Predaking’s fires!”

A shadow fell over the battlefield. “You need a new curse,” Ultra Magnus called. The Autobot commander stood atop an overpass; dented, damaged but unbowed. “Your cult is finished, Cruel Lock, and your guru is no more than a sham.”

He threw something at Megatron’s feet. The red-and-orange object had broad wings but was otherwise small, gnarled and weak-looking. It took Rodimus a moment to realise it was Predaking, somehow devolved into a gargoyle.

Magnus bounded from the overpass, wincing slightly as he landed amidst the throng of Decepticons. A chunk of rock was tucked under his left arm. “As for you lot,” he said, glaring through his scarred optic, “every last one of you is under arrest. If you surrender, right now, I’ll go easy on you.”

“Now _that’s_ more like it,” Thundercracker cried. The midnight-blue warrior leaped up and charged to Magnus’ side, his shoulder cannons locking into position. Rodimus and the others followed, forming a perimeter around their commanding officer.

The Decepticons fell back as rifles and missile launchers locked onto them; the Terrorcons shrunk further back into their hole. The clones might have been destroyed, but the “Dirge song” still echoed in all their audio receptors and made them weak.

Megatron laughed quietly.

“Care to share, Megatron?” Magnus thundered.

The tyrant folded his spiked arms across his chest. “I find your confidence… refreshing,” he admitted. “The Ultra Magnus I knew would be cowering behind Prime’s mudflaps right now, asking for _permission_ to engage the enemy.”

Magnus returned the smile, albeit with menace. “You’ve been gone a long, long time,” he rasped. “And your memory, obviously, is faulty. Here’s the update: I’ve just put my second ‘god’ in the ground, lobotomised a military genius and collected another Planet Key. A jumped-up terrorist clad in Unicron’s hand-me-downs is the sort of loser I polish off as a _warm up_.”

Rodimus felt a surge of confidence run through him. He wasn’t alone; the other Autobots straightened up, despite their wounds, and held their weapons with new strength. The odds didn’t matter, anymore – being outnumbered was an inconvenience, not an excuse to stand idly by. The Decepticons had already been beaten, disarmed, and thrashed to within an inch of their lives by each other. They were loose, divided, chaotic… but the Autobots were, at long last, a _team_. The winning team.

Swindle handed a remote control to Megatron. “The Decepticons’ weaponry deactivated because I wished it so,” the despot rumbled. “It was the simplest means by which to end the conflict, and was facilitated by Swindle’s unfettered access to the arsenals of both factions.” He flashed his dental plates. “I can reload every gun around you in a _second_ ,” he threatened, “with the press of a button.”

Magnus levelled his rifle at Megatron’s head. “And I _will_ evaporate your skull in _less_ than a second,” he promised, “with the pull of a trigger.”

Megatron _flinched_. His optics flicked from Magnus to the remote control, and back again. Magnus’ gaze never shifted. His focus was locked on Megatron, and his finger was wrapped tightly around Blue Bolts’ trigger.

Neither leader noticed the unfamiliar silhouettes coming over the horizon – but Rodimus did. Peering through Matrix-enhanced optics, he saw a dozen human-built robots approaching them. Worst of all, there were humans _actually inside_ the hulking devices, piloting them.

Silverstreak saw it too. “Spawn of a glitch,” he groaned. “The peasants are revolting.”

They were surrounded very, very quickly. Rodimus didn’t recognise any of the human pilots, but they were clearly running some kind of peace-keeping agenda. One of the suits made its way to Koji, Kicker and Misha, seeking to shield them from the stand-off. Another trained its guns on Snarl and Sky Shadow as they lay dying on the ground. Five humans flanked the Terrorcons, penning them in, while the remaining five approached the Autobots and Decepticons. Sideways, the access broker, was with them. Though his orange face plate was as blank as always, he almost seemed embarrassed.

A canopy on the lead battle suit popped open with a hiss, revealing a blue-haired woman. Magnus, finally, took his optics away from Megatron. His surprise, at seeing the woman, was evident. Rodimus remembered his leader’s report on the Flame Convoy battle… about the humans who had given their aid … and wondered if the woman had been one of them.

“I _was_ going to give you the benefit of the doubt,” she said, her tone brisk and disapproving, “but I can see, now, that was the wrong thing to do. However noble your intentions, Ultra Magnus… whatever cause you claim to uphold… you and your team are still walking engines of destruction. Everywhere you go, you bring chaos. I’m sure you believe that the end justifies your means, but all I see is devastation – conflict without end. This is our world, and there’s no longer room on it for your war. And, since I doubt any of you would be prepared to just pack up and leave…”

Green lights appeared all over Rodimus’ chest plate. The humans were targeting him – targeting _all_ the Transformers – with laser sights. The beams were mounted atop broad-barrelled canons. Looking carefully, Rodimus recognised the tell-tale shape of 120mm sabot rounds. The kinetic energy weapons, superheated to puncture tank armour, were the only human munition capable of injuring a Transformer. And each battle suit had _eight_ sabot launchers.

“My only choice,” the woman said coolly, “is to kill you all.”


	5. Chapter 5

He heard his mother screaming.

It was a sound that had haunted Koji Jones’ days… and nights… and _nightmares_ … for months. Thoughts of her being trapped, held prisoner, even killed had plagued him at all hours. His parents had been stolen from him, and nothing would be right until they were reunited.

Now they were back together and, still, nothing was right.

Koji didn’t know the person piloting the suit of armour. He didn’t recognise the weaponry strapped to its bulky metallic arms. All the boy knew was the creature had its weapons trained on his mother, because she’d put herself between it and Snarl.

“Leave them alone!”

As he yelled, he pointed… and the battle suit’s arm _fell to pieces._ It didn’t explode or disintegrate – it disassembled. Every bolt in the metallic limb unscrewed; as every pop-rivet wriggled loose. Plating fell away, wiring undid itself, couplings and housings separated into component pieces. Even the ammunition itself reverse-engineered and, within seconds, was reduced to its original components.

In the distance, Koji saw Starscream gape. The aerial warrior turned around and slapped a clueless Soundwave across the back of the head. “Why didn’t you know about _that_ , huh?” he demanded. “And about Megatron, for that matter? Some ultimate repository of information _you_ are, you big dummy!”

The pilot was also shocked, providing enough of a distraction for Snarl to act. Even weakened as he was – dying as he was – the white wolf had some strength left. His thick tail lashed out and tripped the battle suit, sending it crashing to the bitumen.

“Go, boy,” Snarl muttered weakly. “Stop them.”

Koji ran, deaf to his mother’s pleas – his father’s cries of protest. Tears streamed from his face and trailed behind him. He loved his parents and he wanted to do right by them – but he had another obligation to fulfill first. The Autobots had borne the brunt of his mistakes, of his mistrust and stupidity, and he needed to make amends.

“Leave them alone,” he yelled again. “Leave the Autobots alone!”

A battle suit swung around, zeroing its weapons in on his chest. Koji skidded to a halt. His body was covered by green dots as more pilots turned to face him.

The Autobots reacted instantly – and angrily. Scattorshot, Rodimus, Jazz and the others pressed their weapons to the canopies of the battle suits, leaving pilots to stare nervously into gun barrels wider than their own heads.

“Everyone _calm down,_ ” Magnus boomed. His rifle was still trained on Megatron’s faceplate. “Junko, you know we don’t harm humans – but if your team moves against the boy, you’ll leave us with no choice. Decepticons; hold off, or your leader’s resurrection becomes the shortest on record.”

Starscream’s optics lit up. “Shoot him now!” he cried. “Shoot him now!”

The woman in the lead battle suit – Junko – glared at Magnus. “My men won’t back down,” she growled, “no matter what you say or do. If we die, so do all of you.”

Koji felt anger swell within him. There was a pounding in his head, a throbbing in his temples. His fingertips itched and his hair stood up, like he’d been blasted with a torrent of static electricity. He opened his mouth and yelled as loud as he could, throwing his arms forward at the same time.

Three of the battle suits crumbled to pieces instantly. A fourth fired on him – the projectiles disassembled as they approached, their components dropping harmlessly to the ground. An unfamiliar robot – black, with a head like a tuning fork – pushed the battle suit from behind and knocked it over.

Jazz and the Autobots made light work of the rest. Given an insight into the design of the suits, they placed their shots with deadly accuracy. No human was so much as singed by the laser blasts, concussion rounds and short-range missiles that totalled the cybernetic army. Pilots ran from the smouldering wrecks… all save the blue-haired woman. Defiantly, she drew a thick-barrelled pistol from her belt and aimed it at Magnus’ head.

“You _really_ don’t want to do that,” Thundercracker sneered. His wing sword – three times as thick as the woman’s body – hovered just above her skull. The sheer enormity of the weapon did the trick; Junko lowered her gun at last.

Koji breathed a sigh of relief… and fell backwards into his father’s arms. Light headed, he didn’t resist as his dad lay him on the ground. His mother started fussing over him immediately, checking his pulse and pupils. Kicker was smiling.

“Hell of a thing,” he nodded.

Koji smiled weakly. “Must run in the family,” he whispered.

“Even if that was a one time thing,” the older man smiled, “I’m very proud of you.”

The boy’s grin widened. His head hurt, and he wanted to pass out. He didn’t fight the impulse. His family… even the big, metallic members of his family… were safe.

\-----

“A pleasant diversion,” Megatron crooned, “that changes nothing about our stalemate.”

“I wasn’t aware we had a stalemate,” Magnus replied. “You so much as twitch, I’ll take off your head. From where I’m standing, that’s a victory.”

“Then you are a _fool,_ ” the despot snarled. “You know, as well as I, the reasons for this chassis of mine! You know I was one with the Chaos Bringer itself – part of the first darkness that spawned in this universe!” He grinned evilly. “How do you even know you _can_ kill me, Autobot?”

No one moved. Magnus knew his troops’ optics were on him, wondering what should be done. The Terrorcons remained a wild card; loyal to no one, they could lash out at everyone. The Autobots would have to shift focus, giving the Decepticons ample time to stab them in the back. And if Megatron could do what he said… if he _could_ re-activate the Decepticons’ weaponry… the Autobots would be slaughtered within seconds.

Doubt washed over his processor like a black, inky tide. He was facing down _Megatron_! Improvisation was enough to outsmart a bargain-basement cultist like Predaking, but Megatron had put entire civilisations to the torch! He was so cruel that Unicron felt him worthy to be possessed! How could a former Mini-con, amplified by fate and circumstance, hope to compete with the greatest evil in the universe?

Then he heard a voice… his own. He’d recorded, hours earlier, to off-set the Dirge song. Instead of merely registering its calming presence, Magnus _listened_ to the sound. And, in doing so, he understood. For the first time in his life, he realised why troops followed him without question. He knew how he’d earned Optimus’ faith; recognised why even Grimlock would defer to his command. To those outside Magnus’ head, those hearing his words without knowing his feelings… he sounded like a true leader. 

“I _don’t_ know if I can kill you,” he finally admitted. “But I have a full clip, and I won’t stop firing until we both find out.”

Megatron opened his mouth to respond but was drowned out… by the sound of engines.

The air above them shimmered, like a heat-haze, as a stealth beam coating evaporated. Over their heads loomed a long, blue-and-yellow space craft – the combined alt mode of Omega Supreme. Just as had Fortress Maximus, 10 years earlier, and likely the Decepticon ship, the mighty Autobot had evaded all detection thanks to the coating. It was only temporary, and burned away after exposure to a planet’s atmosphere, but was more than adequate to sneak a battle force undetected into an area.

Hatches opened and out poured reinforcements. Optimus Prime, already clad in his battle armour, led the way. Grimlock was by his side; the Dinobot was followed by Swoop and the “special needs protos”. Red Alert hit the ground running and made straight for Snarl and Sky Shadow; the rest of the Autobot elite formed a larger perimeter around the scene. The Decepticons, Terrorcons and battle suit humans were caught between two heavily armed Autobot forces, with absolutely nowhere to go.

Optimus made his way to the front. “Megatron,” he said gravely.

“Prime,” Megatron replied, nodding calmly. “I wondered when you would be along.” The despot raised the remote control. “Much of the consternation, if you’re interested, revolves around this device. Were I to push the button, the weapons systems of all the Decepticons – Terrorcons included – would re-activate instantly.”

“That would be a very unwise decision, Megatron,” Prime warned.

The tyrant smirked… and, with a snap and a popping of electronics, crushed the control.

“What are you _doing_?” Starscream wailed.

Megatron let the crumpled pieces of the device fall to the ground, then brushed his hands together to sweep off any remnant. “Decepticons, stand down,” he ordered, “and regroup behind me. _Now._ ”

Their amazement obvious, the Decepticons nonetheless followed their leader’s command. Starscream was the last to respond; he kicked petulantly at a rock as he fell in. “You go to all the work of building an empire,” he muttered, but didn’t finish the thought.

Magnus held his position. The Autobots – RIDs, SWATs and reinforcements alike – flanked him on either side. The humans ran from the combat zone as fast as they could. All save for Junko, who stood off to one side and watched.

“I wanted you to be here to see this, Prime,” Megatron said, ignoring Magnus and focusing on his ancient enemy. “I wanted you to be able to look back on this day, for the rest of your existence, and understand precisely what has happened. Today, I have proven myself your superior. I have shown myself to be greater than any ‘Prime’ in history; a leader far greater leader than any appointed by the self-righteous Council of Ancients. What I have done, this day, is something _you_ have tried and failed to accomplish.

“I have _ended the war._ ”

Murmurs of amazement rippled through the Transformers. Weapons grew slack in hands. Only Prime seemed unaffected. “Go on,” he intoned.

“Your brother,” Megatron said, flicking a thumb at Magnus, “is somewhat more gung-ho than I remember. When I said this pathetic excuse for conflict was over, I did not mean the feud with the Terrorcons. I meant the Cybertronian civil war itself.”

His expression faltered slightly. “The time I spent merged with Unicron opened my processor to… new thoughts,” he stammered. “Realisations both uncomfortable and long overdue. Pieces of myself I'd long denied. I came to understand that my reasons for continuing the war were very different from the motivations that led me to break away in the first place.

"I'd wanted narrow-minded fools to see the dangers of the greater universe, and to recognise the abilities of those who could best serve Cybertron’s defence. Domination, ascension, genocide… these were not part of the Decepticon ideal.”

Magnus saw Thundercracker’s head snap around.

“I had years to ponder these things, while I recovered,” Megatron continued. “The Regenesis wave that swept Cybertron, restoring all of you, had some effect on my shattered form. But not enough… the taint of Unicron was too strong for Primus’ power to heal me fully. That task fell, instead, to my one and only ally: Swindle."

The little yellow mech grinned sardonically, and threw a mock salute.

“Known once as Hardtop, he was the first to fall in the battle of Iacon," Megatron said. "Reformatted by the Regenesis, he found me crawling from the Vector Sigma chamber and ferried me to a safe haven. Since then, he has both liberated supplies from the Decepticons to restore me _and_ earned a position of trust within Decepticon and Terrorcon ranks, all to effect my ultimate plan.”

“The end of the war,” Prime said. It was obvious, from his tone, that he was having trouble accepting the words of his old enemy.

“The end of the war,” Megatron repeated. With a flash of light, his fusion cannon detached from his arm and looped back into his wing. “We have fought for too long, Prime. Our philosophies... mine _and_ yours... have been corrupted. Hidden in Unicron’s remains, I watched as you tried to spread the Autobot code to other worlds. At the same time, Starscream initiated genocide on a level worthy of the Chaos Bringer itself. The taint of Primus and the taint of Unicron, driving us forward on paths that benefit no one… where does it end?”

Optimus shifted uncomfortably. Magnus found himself nodding – looking around, he saw that others shared the sentiment. Insane as it was, the worst tyrant in Cybertronian history was making perfect sense. “ _In the Spark of an enemy_ ,” Magnus murmured, “ _there will be salvation, and in the darkest hour there will be a light_.”

“There will be no war today, Optimus Prime,” Megatron finished. The smug grin returned to his face. “As I said, I am your better. Today, I have brought peace to all worlds and won the war… things you could _never_ have achieved.”

Magnus’s sense of peace vanished. For a moment, the Megatron of ancient record – the solider, the military commander, the patriot – had been on display. But now the self-righteous villain had shown his colours once more. He was either unwilling to, or incapable of, letting such a momentous occasion pass without slapping Prime across the face plate.

Optimus pushed Magnus aside and glared at his arch foe. His powerful right arm moved… as he offered his hand.

“Thank you,” he said.

A curious look passed over Megatron’s face plate.

Magnus found himself remembering a distant time, before the war, when the Council of Ancients had Cybertron wrapped in a blanket of ignorance. During the rule of Sentinel Prime, no one talked about conflict. No one acknowledged the soldiers who fought on distant worlds to stave off alien invasions. There were no parades to mark historic victories; no memorials for the fallen. Megatron had been the leader of a faceless, invisible army – a force vital to Cybertron’s security but disavowed by its leaders.

It occurred to Magnus that, in all his life, Megatron had never been thanked.

Megatron took Prime’s hand in his own. Fingers that had triggered weapons… directed troops… confirmed orders across millions of years of strife and torment… interlaced. And, with a firm shake, the Transformers civil war ended.

There was a small crash as, behind the leaders, Starscream fainted.

\-----

Not for the first time… but, hopefully, for the _last_ … Optimus Prime counted the cost of war.

The human city had been levelled; the loss of life was incomprehensible. Blame for the carnage rested mainly on the Terrorcons, and they had been taken immediately into custody. At Prime’s urging, Megatron had withdrawn his offer of amnesty to those who had fought alongside Predaking – mechs and femmes like Insecticon and Chromia were now chained inside Omega Supreme, bound for the prison on Cybertron.

Predaking himself was near comatose. Ultra Magnus had seen personally to his imprisonment – the zealot, unlike his followers, had been caged in an Energon cell. He grunted and snuffled like a pig.

Optimus had watched his brother with pride. In the ten years since they had last been together, Magnus had conquered so many of the “failings" he perceived himself to have. He seemed settled, maybe even at peace, with his own nature. That, like the cease-fire itself, was an unexpected gift.

Magnus’ troops talked in loud, happy voices as often as they mourned the loss of Armourhide. They gave off a feeling of unity, of strength, Optimus had seen in very few combat teams. They were, to a mech, a very different bunch than the feuding, conflicted Autobots who’d asked him to preside over a trial.

“Well, ah guess that’s our last run,” Scattorshot had said. “Th’ humans know we’re here, so th’ RIDs ain’t got no purpose no more. An’ the cease-fire means you ‘con-hunters ain’t gonna be doin’ that job, so th’ SWATs are outta work, too.”

Bulkhead had strolled past, dragging Crumplezone along. “Good thing, too,” the green helicopter had smiled, “because when I look at you, all I see are _Wreckers_.”

Kicker’s family had been reunited. That much, at least, was right with the world. Optimus’ old ally talked animatedly with his wife, his son – even his estranged sister. There would be time, in the coming days, for the Autobot leader to sit with his human friend and talk; to debrief over all that had happened. There would be time, also, to analyse Koji’s new abilities and help the boy learn to use them.

Vector Prime was no more. Optimus had felt his Spark enter the Creation Matrix, bringing with it an unprecedented surge of wisdom. The first leader of the Transformers had become one with the Allspark, and his sacrifice had guaranteed the survival of two worlds. Yet Optimus mourned the isolation, the loneliness, of his death. He prayed that, within the Matrix, the ancient mech would find the community he had long sought, and be at peace within a world where All were truly One. His Master Key… along with the green Planet Key… would be secured on Cybertron.

Megatron’s plans were simple: the Decepticons would leave Earth, immediately, in the massive head-ship. They would take up residence on one of the worlds charred by Starscream’s rampage and rebuild it. He didn’t anticipate any dissension in the ranks; his mechs were quiet and very cowed. “Peace through tyranny,” Megatron had explained, as if that solved everything. Optimus did not share his confidence, nor approve of his methods. For today, though, it would be enough. It would _have_ to be enough.

The former despot had promised to contact Optimus once they had settled, in order to begin proper peace talks. Prisoner exchanges, war crime trials, restitution, the wars on Speedia and Gigalonia, restoring Cybertron to its rightful place in the universe… there was much to be discussed in the coming days.

Thundercracker had elected to remain with the Autobots. More accurately, he had spat in Megatron’s face when asked to rejoin the Decepticons.

“Our world,” said a quiet voice by Optimus’ feet.

He looked down. Junko, the woman with a unique exposure to the Transformers, was resting on a fallen street light.

“Our war,” Optimus acknowledged. “One of many things, it seems, we could have handled better. Though our intentions were noble, I fear we have wrought much damage upon our adopted planet.”

“My father had theories about that sort of thing,” Junko said lightly. “None of them did him any good, though.” She looked meaningfully at him. “I figure you can spend so long contemplating courses of action, you never actually do anything.”

A passage from the Covenant ran through his processor. _And the stone of their protection shall rise up, forever and ever_. No longer, Optimus knew, could the Autobots hide in plain sight. It was time to join life on Earth. “I’d like an opportunity to meet with the leaders of this world,” he said.

Junko rose. “I’ll set it up,” she said, dusting concrete dust from her red pants suit. “But remember: the human race is not defenceless anymore. We know how to hurt you. Things might be sweetness and light with your purple-badged friends, Optimus Prime, but Earth has yet to pass its judgement on the Transformers.”

She walked away. Sideways was waiting for her. The freelance access broker held, in his hand, Alexis – the Decepticon sympathiser. She'd been handcuffed. “Charming girls,” he called to Optimus. “ _Both_ of them.”

The Autobot leader didn’t reply, and instead walked over to where Downshift and Red Alert were working. The emerald engineer had Sky Shadow’s hand gripped tightly. The Terrorcon turn-coat had, unfortunately, regained consciousness. Optimus could scarcely imagine the agony he was suffering, with Bludgeon’s bone sword still through his head.

“Don’t let me die,” Sky Shadow moaned. “If I die… it’s all for nothing… my research… want to live… want _everyone_ to live…”

Magnus and his mechs closed in around them. Rodimus placed his hand, lightly, on Downshift’s shoulder. “What are you going to do?” the cavalier asked.

Downshift’s features twisted. “What _should_ I do?” he asked. “One of Sky Shadow’s ‘death bed confessions’ was that he’s been piggy-backing on my Spark to get information out of us! The Spark-catcher’s a class-A failure… it turned me into a living microphone, transmitting ideas to the Terrorcons!” His shoulders slumped. “Armourhide was right, after all.”

Magnus joined them. “That doesn’t matter now,” he said soothingly. “You have the technology to save Sky Shadow – to keep his Spark alive until it can be inserted into a new protoform. You have his consent. It all comes down to your own ethics, Downshift, and what you’re comfortable doing.”

The engineer sighed heavily. “Where there’s life,” he muttered, “there’s hope.”

With a hiss and a cloud of evaporating coolant, Downshift’s front grille cracked open to reveal a glowing Energon claw. Its orange grippers were serrated and studded with all manner of tools. In the centre of the pincers was a small, sharp-tipped cone, around which crackled eldritch energies. The claw chattered three times and latched onto Sky Shadow’s chest plate. The Terrorcon’s body went rigid.

“Overcast,” he cried out.

Sky Shadow went limp; a coruscating ball of Spark energy slid out of him and into Downshift’s device. The engineer pulled the assembly back into his chest and locked the grille. “And maybe,” he said, “there’s hope for a _better_ life, this time around.”

“Prime,” Red Alert said urgently, “over here.”

Koji, his family and the rest of the Autobots ran over. They gathered, as one, by Snarl’s side. The wolf was almost completely grey; his optics were dull and clouded. The boy started to cry as he wrapped his tiny hands around one of the beast’s claws.

“You… are safe,” Snarl gasped, locking eyes with Koji. “You and… your parents. Then… there is nothing to regret. The world of peace… that beckons to you all… is no place for… a hunter. A throwback… to ways old and savage. A… traitor… to all.”

“It’s not too late,” Downshift said. “If you transform, I’ll…”

Snarl half-coughed, half-laughed. “I have spent my life… trying to escape cages,” he gurgled. “Seeking… freedom that was forever… denied me. Locking myself … in another prison… of steel… is no temptation." His eyes blazed for but a moment. "Let me die… a beast," he said, his voice quavering but resolute. "It is… more fitting that way. Proper. From this day... I shall hunt no more.”

A pallor settled over Snarl’s frame. His eyes went dark, and the last traces of strength ebbed from his body.

Koji wailed as the beast’s Spark rose, bobbled, and arced upward toward Optimus. The section beneath his Autobot insignia opened, letting the light of the Creation Matrix spill out onto the battle field. Grieving, Optimus shut off his optics and braced himself for the rush of heady sensation that came when a being left this world.

He felt nothing.

Ultra Magnus had blocked Optimus’ chest plate with his hand. His fingers were generating small waves of magnetic pulse that pushed the Spark away from the Matrix. Confused, Optimus stared at his brother.

“The Allspark is just another prison,” Magnus said solemnly. “Let him be free.”

The Autobot leader nodded. With no small effort, he forced the Creation Matrix to close. The Spark hesitated for a moment, as if caught off-guard, then it strobed – from blue to green – and lifted into the sky. In a moment, it was but a twinkle of light amongst the clouds. Another moment, and it was gone.

“Into a new universe,” Magnus said, putting an arm around his brother.

“A changed universe,” Rodimus chorused.

Optimus looked at the Autobots and humans gathered around Snarl. Mechs as old as Omega Sentinel; femmes as young as Sparkle. Beings that had confronted their fears and won – Ultra Magnus, Bulkhead – and warriors that were only just beginning to excel – Scattorshot, Side Burn. New life, like the bestial Mini-cons, mixed in with experienced mechs like Red Alert and Nightbeat. Enemies turned allies, like Thundercracker. All that possibility, all that potential, united as a force for galactic harmony. As _friends._

“Some things,” he said, “don’t change. Thankfully.”

His people were free. They could forge their destiny without warfare and conflict. And it would be a destiny uncharted. The Covenant of Primus had been fulfilled – the darkest hour had come and gone. From now and into the future, fate would bear not the markings of ancient deities but the symbol of the Autobots: a group that, even in the face of extinction, would never surrender.

They would face challenges, certainly. The Autobot/Decepticon peace was a new and, therefore, fragile thing. Mechs like Starscream were unlikely to let it stand. Predaking and his followers, though jailed, would remain a threat. Wounds both physical and psychological needed to heal; a relationship had to be forged with humanity as urgently as Optimus’ “own house” – on Speedia and Gigalonia – needed to be put in order.

There was so much left to do… yet, for once, Optimus Prime found the thought of challenge _invigorating._ Beneath his mask-like face plate, he smiled.

“It never ends,” he said.

\-----

With a rush of sensation, Tankor came online.

The giant suppressed the urge to scream. Death was _never_ pleasant, and he’d hoped not to have to experience it again. Getting slagged was, this time, his own stupid fault. He and Obsidian had failed to account for Megatron’s absence when formulating their strategies. It was a mistake he would not repeat.

Tankor pushed his way out of the cloning tube and flexed his new limbs. As always, his body was a perfect replica of the one he’d just lost, albeit missing the pock-marks and battle scars he so treasured. Knowing he’d endure new ones soon enough, the brute relished the thought of the combat to come.

His Evergence must have taken the longest, for none of the others were around. Tankor transformed and trundled through the ship. As annoying as death was, he never turned down the chance to come home. Gruesome décor, corners as sharp as the blades that jutted from the hull, the glorious sight of the Chaos Bringer’s wings soaring, over the deck, as solar sails… the galleon was breathtaking in its majesty.

Though he mourned the loss of his lord every day, Tankor was thankful they’d been able to salvage Unicron’s remains and convert them into a vessel worthy of Its most loyal disciples; create a home base from which Its work could continue, even after Its death.

The galleon sailed through the blood-red void between universes, cleaving a course – as it always did – for the Omega Point. If they had their way, Tankor and his allies would see that blessed day of un-life soon. And though they’d suffered a setback – he refused to admit they had failed – it was but a minor problem. _Chaos provides_ , he thought.

He found the others on the bridge, peering into scrying pools and view screens. Obsidian was, of course, the first to welcome him back to life; it was one of the many reasons Tankor treasured his partner so. For a vicious, homicidal killer, Obsidian was incredibly caring. Reptilion was fussing over the propulsion systems like he always did, confident he could eke more speed out of the galleon’s infernal engines.

Bludgeon’s mood was foul. Likely, the hover tank was angry at himself for using live weaponry during the battle – when all Terrorcons were _supposed_ to be unarmed – and almost giving away his allegiance. “An alliance,” he hissed. “Reprehensible.”

“Without merit, point or reasonable prospect of success,” Reptilion added. “In embracing a cessation of hostilities, Megatron has failed to account for the overwhelming changes made, on a quantum level, to his Spark via communion with Our Lord. Irrespective of his attempts to distance himself from his nature, the leader of the Decepticons _is_ a creature of chaos now – much like ourselves – and cannot deny that lure for long.”

“Megatron may deny or embrace his existence as he chooses,” a dark voice snarled. “It matters not. He, like all Transformers, is slated for extinction.”

A shadow fell over them all. Tankor dropped, immediately, to his knees. Obsidian and the others followed suit. The fifth face of darkness did not tolerate anything less than complete subservience.

Nemesis Prime settled his mighty bulk into his throne. Though his injuries had been horrific, the technorganic mammoth had made a full recovery. Normally he would not have Everged so quickly, but chaos had provided – as Vector Prime had lost his powers, so too had the harbinger of un-life been restored to full lethality.

“Failure surrounds me,” the demon intoned, “and _infects_ me. Long have you all hidden within the ranks of Primus’ children – as Decepticons, first, and then as Terrorcons also – to do the will of Our Lord. Your tasks were simple: heighten tensions, increase despair, escalate the war so that Cybertron’s destruction was assured. In a brew as turbulent as this, success _should_ have been guaranteed!”

He thumped an ebon hand against an arm rest. “We have _all_ failed, this time. Our enemies proved to be our measure, as they were the measure of Our Lord. And so we begin again; we shall continue Its work, and succeed where It faltered.”

Dead End climbed up onto the other arm rest. “Tingle tangle tremble toes,” the deranged Mini-con sang. “They’ll all fall down!”

“And sooner,” Bludgeon grinned, “than they expect.”

“Set sail,” Nemesis Prime boomed, “for our next temporal port. Give the fools time enough to pursue their ridiculous _peace._ ” He all but spat the word. “Let them revel in a false sense of security; lower their guard and lose their fighting spirit. We shall dispatch our agents to move against them, and against Cybertron, that we may turn Primus’ orbit into the centre of a swirling, infinite hell of nothingness!”

Tankor transformed. He powered away from the bridge and back through the galleon, past the skeletal, zombie-like husks that manned the rigging. Thanks to the Dead Matrix, they were never short of crew members. He found the ship’s captain near the bow, sighting – with his one remaining optic – through a hi-tech telescope.

“Are we ready to sail?” Tankor rumbled.

The captain turned around. His squat black body was festooned with tattoos. Each garish design was a skeleton, either organic or Cybertronian. One of his tan arms ended in a hook; Tankor knew the implement could be replaced, at whim, with any one of a number of cruel devices. The pirate walked with a slight limp – the result of an old injury – but it never let it stop him, especially when there were ships to plunder.

Cannonball flashed the larger mech a hideous grin. “Aren’t we always?” he cackled.


End file.
